


For We Walk by Faith, Not by Sight

by an_evasive_author



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Eye Trauma, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description of Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Romance, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-01-15 17:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 68,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_evasive_author/pseuds/an_evasive_author
Summary: “They always think I go for the tongue first, did you know?” He laughs and the twirling firepoker in His hand glows cherry red.“I wonder why they think that, how would I hear them properly, hm? No, no. Here,” He says and wrenches Maedhros' face around. There is no escape.“Let me show you.”And then there is only anguish.------When Fingon comes to return Maedhros home, it becomes terribly apparent that the enemy intended to hopple the free people of one of their leaders in the best way they know how.





	1. Light Spent

It was a truly terrible time to find out that he was afraid of heights, Fingon thought as he clutched tightly against Thorondor. The rapid descent, lurching slightly with every single one of colossal wingbeats send his stomach into twisting knots.

But there could be no delay and so Fingon stuffed whatever fear he felt deep inside, somewhere just above the resentment he felt for the Ice and those that had left him behind to brave it, and pressed on.

He could feel his belongings jostle around at his side. He dared not let go of the feathers beneath him to adjust the strap digging into his shoulder. His lyre and the crowbar he had brought pushed around and poked him in the ribs and once more Fingon cursed himself. Why, oh why had he not packed lighter?

But just how did one prepare for something like this? Fingon had no idea and so he had taken what had not been nailed down and chased after the distant promise that he would find Maedhros somewhere in enemy land. He would have done it for even less.

Maedhros who had left him behind. Maedhros who had thrown all their years of friendship away for a senseless oath. But who was Fingon if he did not try to outdo Maedhros in his harebrained schemes?

He had not counselled with anyone, not his father, his siblings, no one. There was no time for it. Instead he threw together what he thought useful and fled into the night before anyone could talk sense into him. Least of all himself.

His sword hung on the other side and it felt just as distractingly wrong as it had all along.

Thorondor tore him out of his musings and Fingon's gasp was stolen away when he saw the tiny copper spot hanging limply from the side of the mountain.

The scale was quite askew for poor Fingon who battled with his newfound dissaproval of heights and the swirling elation and trepidation of just what and who hung upon the cruel, cold wall of the mountain. It was Maedhros, of that there was very little doubt. But what was left of him?

Well, he would find out in a moment and whatever happened next, he would not leave anything of Maedhros behind. They did not deserve him.

Thorondor angled sharply, the last few flaps turned him nearly vertically and Fingon held onto the eagle with all his might as the impact of claws smashing into rock shook him to his bones.

It was an awkward position for a bird, even one so accustomed to mountains. Like a fly on a wall, Thorondor pressed himself, wings and all, to the wall to allow Fingon the closed possible contact to the elf who hung like a carelessly strung up carcass. Had the situation not been so downright terrible and dire, Fingon would have perhaps thought about a strung ham. But he had no cheer left.

And yet he was not hopeless.

It was Maedhros in front of him and Fingon could hardly form any thought beyond the rapturous joy at that.

All too soon, the realness of it all returned and Fingon saw his friend unclouded by hopes and memories.

His hair was so grimy, it did not even move in the harsh wind. Nothing was left of the bright copper flame from before, instead plastered to his face in rigid bristles. In his wounds and over his face, everywhere.

Fingon could barely comprehend the sight and so he turned swiftly and searched for the crowbar. What good fortune that he had brought it with him! As if he had known.

Perhaps once this was all over he could look back and pat himself on the back for having packed so thoughtfully. But that would wait. Right now Maedhros came first and he barely felt his heart leap into his throat when he braced himself against the thin ledge, one foot still against Thorondor to get a firm grip on the crowbar.

Already the metal was freezing cold, nearly as bad as the shackle holding Maedhros to this infernal rock. If he had a pickaxe instead, Fingon honestly contemplated reducing this foul thing to rubble, eagles living there or not. A good thing that he had not.

There was a sound over the clicking and scraping of metal and at first Fingon thought the sound to be another frigid current howling through the endless cracks and chasms of this blasted rock. But when he turned from his work, to reassure himself that he was indeed neither dreaming nor hallucinating, Maedhros had turned his face up towards him.

Another keening wheeze escaped him, the ruins of his face, bloodied remnants of his mouth parted slightly as he whimpered.

“Maedhros?” asked Fingon and his voice sounded like that of a child searching for his parents during a thunderstorm. Not at all like a hero coming to save those in distress.

Maedhros reacted sluggish, his head did not snap towards the voice, as he forced himself to tip towards Fingon. “Please--” he said. “--have mercy; Kill me, please. I cannot bear it any longer. _Please_.” And just like that he was out again.

Fingon wished to weep. From sorrow, from gratitude, it was at this point not a great difference. But he could not just yet. The eagle shifted beneath him, the sound of claws clicking, cracking stone as he adjusted himself anew.

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Fingon braced himself and again he leaned into the crowbar which was just harrowing, so far above the unforgivable ground. One wrong step, one careless move and he could only hope that Thorondor could catch him fast enough.

There was the screeching groan of metal, the rusted shackle buckled, resisted for another moment to hold onto Maedhros, unwilling to give him free. But it was Fingon who persisted and suddenly Maedhros' form slumped before Fingon lurched forward and pinned him against the wall before he could plummet. There was the awful sound of skin scraping against rough stone and Fingon was already apologizing again.

Thorondor squawked and pressed his wings against the wall tighter to allow Fingon to pull back easier and settle Maedhros against his chest. As he held him tight, clung to him like a child, Fingon felt nothing of substance. Maedhros was only bone now, bone and open sores. Nothing remained of the prince that had left Fingon behind on the shores.

Thorondor carried them home, leaving behind the mountain where now only a stain of blood and the remains of a broken shackle reminded that Maedhros and Fingon had ever been there.

The only visible reminder. Perhaps what was left of Maedhros' broken spirit would also linger behind.

Fingon wept.

* * *

All had blended together, sights, sounds, everything was like grey slush and Fingon felt terribly exhausted, _numb _really. The joy at having found his friend was overshadowed by worry and exhaustion so great, it felt as if the Ice was still clinging to him and what had remained had been dragged down into the yawning, smoke-choked chasms of Thangorodrim. His wrist hurt, tightly gripped into the feathers beneath him. His other arm was tight around Maedhros' limp form, wrapped in Fingon's blanket.

The encampment approached in the distance, came closer, just below them. Fingon's head drooped.

The arrow that whizzed past him was a fantastic way to get him wide awake, though Thorondor remained unfaced as he began his circling descend. So torn out of his stupor, Fingon pulled Maedhros closer again and blinked wearily.

His back hurt, Fingon noticed and rolled his stiff shoulders.

Below them was the encampment of late Fëanor, his sons had gathered already in what served as a plaza of sorts. Archers at attention, safe for one who had loosened his arrow and was now laid flat by Amras who did not stop berating the poor boy even as Thorondor landed between the tents and houses.

Most scattered to make way, though the sons of Fëanor remained where they stood. Maglor, uneasy and looking weighed down by the crown he wore, in the front. “Hail cousin,” said Maglor when it became apparent that the eagle would not eat them. No one commented on the choke in his voice, for they had only eyes for the two elves on the eagle.

Fingon blinked again and felt light-headed, this time it was not because of the height. But he returned the greeting and before he could tack on some manner of clever reply or some witty remark, the commotion was already upon him.

They pulled him off, him and Maedhros before he could even truly gather his thoughts. He was all out of ideas in any case, so perhaps that was not so bad. His plan had been very simple from the start. Survive the Ice, <strike>kick Maedhros</strike>, save Maedhros, come back home. Wherever home was now.

So far, this had turned out outstandingly well; All points on his list had been accomplished and now he could rest. Rest sounded fantastic right about now and his legs seemed to fervently agree, for he stumbled the last steps until he was ushered into the healers longhouse by one of Maedhros' brothers, which one he did not care to find out at the moment.

It seemed that one had taken precedence over most other buildings, for it was already fully furnished and well stocked. Healers in sheer robes scurried around between rows of beds filled with injured elves. Never before had a healer taken such absolute priority over everything else. What need would there have been when one needed only to worry about childbirths and scraped knees from time to time.

No matter, there was a bed, that was enough. He would have taken a corner in a room, should the need have arisen. Maglor said something next to him, a question perhaps, but Fingon did not hear. He barely heard anything above the drum in his chest and the blood rushing in his ears like a feral snowstorm.

He thought very little of eagles and cousins and his family at the other side of the lake. He thought mostly about how his knees rattled when he came upon solid ground. How hungry he should have been when he was only tired. But most of all he wondered if they had made it back in time. It would be quite terrible to save Maedhros only to lose him again on the way back.

When Fingon did not move fast enough for his liking, Caranthir gruffly bullied him into bed with shoves and harsh words until Fingon sat on a thin cot. It was better than furs over metres of ice by far and so Fingon hardly minded that they where nothing like the feather beds he had once been so used to.

He turned his head to where the commotion in the room had centred around. He would only need a little glimpse, just a peek to confirm that indeed he had saved Maedhros and was not simply having a feverdream on the Ice. It would not have been the first time, and even if such was the case, he wanted to at least pretend a happy conclusion.

A gap formed as two healers moved aside, giving Fingon a perfect, horrible moment to take all of it in.

They had already begun to cut away the rags that had fused into the wounds, open skin, pale and bloodless where it was not inflamed made up most of Maedhros' body. He lay utterly limp, unconcerned by anything around him. Never before had Fingon seen him so small and helpless. Not even as he had broken him loose from the mountain where he begged Fingon for an end to his misery.

They peeled back the mess of hair, tangled and stuck into a single, nearly solid mass.

The motion tilted Maedhros' head to the side and for a moment time came to a dead halt. For though he was fully unconscious, his eyes where open and fully turned to Fingon.

But, no, that was not quite right.

Where once there had been eyes not unlike Fingon's own grey ones, there where now only two endless, gaping holes. Inflamed pits, weeping puss and clear liquid, nothing else. Not even eyelids.

Maedhros had no eyes.

It turned out that he had left something else behind.

Fingon fainted.


	2. Light Considered

Coming awake was a most curious sensation. It was not an instant snapping back to wakefulness. Instead he surfaced as if breaking through the waters of a lake. Remnants of dreamless slumber still clung to him and he shook them off, much like water clinging to him.

Fingon was not entirely new to it, for the best way to keep oneself from feeling hunger quite so keenly was to sleep. They had done that often on the Ice. That and walking and clubbing every seal to death that they could find before devouring them raw.

Of course, sleeping had usually brought with it other problems.

But as it was now, when he found himself surfacing from beneath the waves of sleep, he was not cold and he was not over much in pain.

For a moment, he was even quite peaceful and he sat up to stretch. And then he was not, for remembrance returned and Maedhros eyeless gaze was the first thing to remind him just where he was. At least he had not simply dreamed all of it on the Ice.

Fingon whirled his head around. Too fast. His neck was as stiff as the mattress beneath him and he hissed at the sting of pain all over his back. He hissed most unprincely and did not care before turning again, this time slower.

There where beds, some occupied, some not. He did not see Maedhros, but at the far end of the longhouse, the curtains to one bed had been drawn shut.

It was with considerable effort that Fingon swung himself from the bed. He stood firm, feeling more rested than he had in years. The air smelled of herbs and salves and faintly of sickness. But it was better than the Ice. Almost anything was better than the Ice.

A ray of light lazily meandered around the room, from one of the thin slits in the walls that served as windows. It found Fingon's eye with true aim and blinded him so that he cursed.

He glared at the beam before he left, in search for Maedhros.

* * *

He did not part the curtain at first. He could have been wrong and there could have been someone else laying there. But when he peeked between the folds of the white curtain, he knew.

Though the figure before him did not much look like the Maedhros he had known.

It was very much like staring at a ghost. Or a feverdream. But it was not the same terror from before. It helped that there was very little left visible.

What little they had not covered in several layers of blankets was instead wrapped in gauze, only the lower portion of Maedhros' face had been left free to allow unhindered breathing. Tiny stitches, all over his lip where they held the strips together. His –_eyes_, for a lack of a better term... where covered as well by thick wrappings.

There was breathing, if the faint stirring and murmuring croaking could be called anything so generous. But it was better than nothing and Fingon exhaled a sigh that had been lodged in his throat for quite a while.

A bit of now cleaned and trimmed hair, shorter than anything Fingon had ever seen on an elf, lay limply on the pillows and Fingon caressed one of the strands, not daring to touch anywhere else. But he did not feel as if he could linger much longer here. All was too still, the sounds that existed were all wrong. It had been so long that he had been in a solid structure.

Fingon left Maedhros to rest, there was nothing else to do but just that and instead went to search for food.

He was ravenous, he noticed. Once the mussed, sluggish remnants of sleep had left him, it had left him with an appetite befitting one who had just returned from a grand journey.

Since there was no one to order him back to bed, it seemed fair to assume that he was free to go. Flawless logic if ever there had been any.

Fingon pushed the door to the longhouse open, quietly, as to not disturb anyone inside. The light outside blinded him for a moment and he squinted against the harsh glare in his vision.

Here, outside, with the oppressing tranquillity of the infirmary behind him, it was by far louder here. It was the hustle and bustle of a growing community and he could barely hear himself think for a moment.

The Fëanorian side had already established itself, with fields full of long cornstalks and golden wheat waving in the wind, sheep grazed on fenced off pastures like tiny tufts of cloud.

Their own camp looked ramshackle and cobbled together hastily and in a sense it was, but that was only for the lack of time. Fingon did not doubt that in time their own side would also be nothing to sneeze at.

But until then other needs needed to be met.

Not far away, he smelled food. A mead hall stood and wafted the promise of sustenance towards Fingon like a siren call. He followed without hesitation.

* * *

It was between inhaling his third bowl of hot porridge with fruit --Something he had often fantasized about on the Ice and more than once he had been sure he would go insane when the fantasies about all manners of food would not stop-- that Maglor found him.

He waited for Fingon to finish chewing and found himself abandoning this politeness when Fingon went in straight for a fourth helping.

“It is good that you are awake,” he said awkwardly in the way of a greeting. “One of you, at least.”

“Mhm...” Fingon replied around a mouthful of apple and wolfed it down without chewing more than twice. No time for that. He dimly remembered the lessons of etiquette of his youth. _Do not gobble your food down like that, Fingon _his mother would say and then turn around and try the same for his sister, who would also eat as if she was starving.

Well, now they knew what that was like and he did not care for it.

Maglor, who seemingly saw it as his duty to carry the conversation forwards, dragging it by the hair if necessary, hummed. “A little longer and we would have not been able to placate your father any longer.”

“Hm, did he come here?” Fingon did not know if that sounded like something his father would do. But in these last few weeks, months, _years_, really, many things he had never thought possible had happened.

“Oh yes, pacing up and down the path and the camp and the infirmary. He did that a lot. Made them quite nervous. Us too, though I do not blame him.”

Fingon turned his head, inclined it ever so slightly, really. Maglor looked not much better than Fingon did himself, probably. Dark circles under his eyes and his sagging ears made him look quite miserable. The circlet on his head seemed to cause him annoyance, for he would flick his left ear as if to dislodge something bothersome, chase off a fly perhaps, before returning to their drooping position.

“He will want you...” the next word came out awkward, “home... I suppose. Yes, home. At the...I mean, you know where it is.” Very little of Maglor's past way with words remained, it seemed. Perhaps he was simply flustered. Or the crown was pressing on his brain, somehow; All likely possibilities.

“Yes,” said Fingon and watched Maglor's ear twitch again, “He would. I should.”

He was done with his meal, waved off the elf who offered to fill his bowl again and thanked him in the same breath. But nothing else held him by the fire, safe the memory of bone-chilling agony. But other than that, he wished to stretch his legs.

Maglor followed him, first a little behind, fingers tented nervously, then next to Fingon. They walked together towards the longhouse, for Fingon still had his bag and his stupid sword there.

They were not the only ones there when they entered the longhouse, some patients had visitors, the curtains closed on many of the beds and the sounds of murmuring conversations filling the herbal scented air.

There was a sort of restrained commotion, healers moving nimble and with purpose. Fingon watched them as he went past his bed, he could hear Maglor give a confused half-noise, and to Maedhros' sleeping place.

Curufin sat on a taboret and seemed to fume to himself which did not seem all that unusual for him. But there was a worried crease in his brow. His gaze looked terribly forlorn for just the barest of moments before he snapped around.

But he did not yell, likely afraid that the healers would throw him out faster than he could think of indignant insults. And so he simply glared at Fingon and turned around to regard Maedhros again.

All three of them did.

And then, when he felt like he had committed the memory of bandages and stitches and that raspy, gnarly breathing fully into himself, Fingon left. There was now nothing else he could do and lingering here when he had closer family waiting anxiously on the other side of the lake seemed wrong.

He bound the sword to his side, threw the bag of hastily packed belongings over his shoulders and stepped out of the longhouse. Maglor remained behind.

He had made it nearly to the edge of the encampment, hushed mutterings mentioning his name always at the edge of his perception, when Celegorm caught up with him. Or rather, when he stepped out from where he had waited next to the palisade.

They stared each other down for a moment, Huan at Celegorm's side yawning unconcerned, when Celegorm turned his gaze away. “Thank you...”

Fingon hummed and they stood awkwardly.

But Celegorm was not done and he held something out. “I don't suppose you could take this with you? It's –for your sister.”

Fingon certainly could and he took the little parcel. “I don't know if she will forgive you,” said Fingon and angled his ears sharply back.

Celegorm shrugged helplessly and vanished back into the camp, Huan lazily trailing at his heels.

* * *

They were sweet rolls, glazed with honey; Aredhel's favourite. They found out about the contents after Fingon had been rushed into the right side of camp and into the embrace of whomever thought themselves entitled to it which turned out to be rather a lot of people.

Now they sat together, someone had made tea. Aredhel had ranted to herself for a while, unwrapped the gift from Celegorm and had now gone back to muttering to herself about choice insults all the while tearing off pieces from her roll and devouring it. “I will still kill him,” she said bitterly and inhaled the scent of honey.

“Leave some for me,” said Turgon and did not specify if he meant sweet rolls or Fëanorians.

Fingolfin sat next to his eldest, tea with honey standing before him, untouched. “That will have to wait until after we established trade.”

That made Fingon look up from his own piece of baked good, “_Mm_?”

“Yes, I forgot, you slept. Ever since you returned, and it was quite the spectacle, word has spread and we have begun to make the first steps into communicating with one another. Perhaps we can initiate trade, though we have nothing to trade just yet. Save frostbite, maybe. But it is a start, Fingon.”

Lalwen snorted into her own beverage before tipping the whole thing back and draining it dry. “Shouldn't be us to make the first step at reconciliation.”

“I do think,” said Fingolfin, “We have established the order of sanity. With those remaining behind the sanest and the Fëanorians hardly able to survive long enough before they self-destruct.”

Fingon pressed his ears back at the tone of his father's voice.

Fingolfin cleared his throat, “As it stands, we must be the sensible ones and fix what we can, for all else means a conflict on three fronts instead of two. Fingon has made that crucial first step, however unaware of the scope of things this affected.”

Lalwen leaned back in her chair, “Then let us hope,” she said and crossed her arms before her chest, “That Maedhros survives this, or this victory will turn to ash.”

Fingon stared into his tea and thought of the way Maedhros had begged to kill him before all else.

Suddenly, he was not in the mood for sweets anymore.


	3. Light Returned

There was always work to do when it came building a proper camp. Fingon was not certain if he could simply return to houses and solid structures when for thirty years they had slept in temporary shelters or under the sky when storms threatened to steal their tents.

But that would be not that great a concern for now, houses would come eventually. But not just yet. For now there was the question of where food would come from.

Well, they could hunt again; Something other than seals.

More importantly, they could cook. But hunting was not feasible in the long run, meant to tide them over for a while. They would need to farm. Well, they also fished. But it would be the variety that would keep them from going insane. Thirty years the same food tended to get rather bland.

While Fingon had been away, there had been efforts to do just that.

The first efforts were already showing signs of success. Tiny tomato plants twirled along their wooden stakes, trellised cucumbers and the fuzzy little heads of sunflowers sticking out of the turned earth. So at least that was something.

Aredhel had her own tomato plant, fenced off a little to the side. She cared for it by herself, no one else was allowed to touch it. It was the next best thing to love, her cat had been left back home. She wished to dote on something and they had found no cats here. So the tomato plant would have to do.

Fingon, stained with dirt, tilled another row of tomatoes. Everyone was expected to work and though it was fair to argue that Fingon had done his share, he also did not wish to idle. Laying fallow would only mean more time to think and that was the very last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

He leaned on his hoe, one of many traded with the Fëanorian side for some of the deer they had hunted. It felt like a poor deal, but perhaps it was a tentative way to show gratitude without outright gifting it. Someone's honour needed to be upheld, Fingon was sure.

Looking back at his work, Fingon groaned. The rows of tilled soil could be generously called lightly slanted. But they certainly weren't even like the ones already dutifully prepared.

Very well, if anything, it was a challenge. An incentive to become better at it.

The motions, in theory, were simple. Hew the earth. Break it apart. Easy; It was soft. Softer than anything he had walked on in years. Prepare it for the seeds. Wait. The waiting would take the most time.

He would need to find something else to do after that, for waiting did not suit him. Never had. The plants would grow on their own, mostly.

Fingon stopped his work when the burning in his back became all too insistent. He turned to a little group of trees, left over from were most had been cut to made room.

Someone had left a jug of water for him. Galadriel sat next to it, on a tree stump, with a cup of her own.

Both cousins greeted one another and Fingon sat, the garden hoe leaning against a nearby rock, forgotten for the moment.

Galadriel handed him a cup and for a while they sat next to one another. Fingon swirled his water around, not thirsty despite the work he had done.

“You are missed at the training grounds.”

“Is that what we are calling it now?”

Galadriel smirked around her cup, “Well? What else call a pit to beat each other up in?”

Fingon shrugged and went back to sloshing his drink. It reflected the sunlight dancing in the leaves above them. Like tiny moths of light. How strange it all was.

Galadriel watched him, lips drawn into a thin smile, hands clasped around the burned clay of her cup. “So will you go then?”

“Don't feel like it...” said Fingon, rather more clipped than he meant. He cleared his throat, swallowed some of his water and wiped his mouth. “I still have rows to dig.”

For a moment only the light breeze caressing the trees could be heard. Galadriel hummed as she looked at the crooked rows, “I think it would be to everyone's benefit if you came with. We have not seen you safe for supper and even then you always weasel away. Where to, I wonder?”

Fingon carefully avoided to look at the lake and the houses at the other side. One could just see the infirmary.

“Fingon?”

“Just thinking,” said Fingon and stood. “Shall we?”

Galadriel said nothing but followed him to the training grounds.

* * *

They were all familiar with weapons, of course. There had been fencing lessons for all of them when they had been small, many of which Maedhros had taught to his youngest siblings and cousins.

There had been rules, penalties for misconduct and an emphasis for proper and civilised behaviour. Most of that was mostly useless now, as it turned out. Orcs did not much care for the rules of conduct, skirmishes were generally a mess and it usually did not stop after three rounds.

Re-education was necessary and what better way than to beat each other with sticks until something stuck? They did not go at each other with real swords just yet.

Turgon had carved them wooden replicas, eager to busy himself when his drawings and his endless rows of numbers did not satisfy him for the time being. So he carved them swords much like they had back in the old land, though back then they had been only toys.

Finrod and Aredhel were facing each other, both with raised swords to a proper salute. The times may have called for desperate measures but one could still act civilly around kin.

Lalwen sat close by, observing like a schoolmarm might her unruly charges and inclined her head towards Fingon when they reached the grounds. “Finrod, you with Galadriel.”

If one knew what was good for them, one obeyed Lalwen when she gave a direct order and so they both scurried for the rack where another pair of wooden swords leaned.

Behind them Finrod and Aredhel crashed together in a clatter of wood and the sounds of struggle could be heard. In between, Lalwen could be heard, giving advice.

Fingon tested the weight of his sword, not inconsiderable, and turned to Galadriel who twirled her own. “You will go easy on me, right?”

Galadriel grinned.

* * *

She always went for the wrist...

Fingon hissed as he shook his hand out and shifted his plate into his lap so he could hold his fork in the other hand.

Everything felt at least moderately blue and black, though not all courtesy from Galadriel. His siblings and cousins all had their fair share, so Fingon did not feel all that unfairly treated.

Finrod sat by his side, Turgon at the other, both trying very hard to be inconspicuous. They would sometimes look at him while pretending that they did not. When Fingon made to rise to get seconds, Finrod was already on his feet, taking Fingon's and his own plate which was still half-filled. Turgon remained.

“I won't leave, you know,” said Fingon when Turgon filled his cup with tea. One could not simply run when there was tea to finish. What devious scheming.

“How nice,” Turgon said and gave him another vague half-look.

Well, so be it then, Fingon thought and drank from his tea. Peppermint again. There was not much variety like back home. Fingon had never been an avid tea drinker, but he would not have minded terribly a proper cup of whatever it had been his grandmother had always made.

But he wished many things these days and record showed what good that did.

Finrod returned with their food and Fingon noted an additional piece of fish on his own plate.

These last few weeks there had often been these little services to Fingon. His chair always remained unoccupied, his bed would have been made whenever he returned in the evenings and he would always get a bigger portion during meals.

He did not know how to feel about this sudden adoration. It felt disingenious. He had not done what he had done with the well-being of his people in mind. Only Maedhros and his own wholeness had mattered at that moment.

Now sometimes elves would stop what they were doing to thank him. They would bow to Fingolfin and then to him.

Fingon had always been the approachable one of his siblings. Between Aredhel's standoffishness and desire to best those around her. With Turgon, shy as a child and aloof as an adult and Argon with his moods.

Fingon had only ever been an elf who happened to have a prince as a father. But he had never been a prince himself. Neither acted nor felt like it.

And now?

He remembered his father's words. How they would need to keep the elves together. Well, if undeserved hero-worship was the price... There were worse things to pay, Fingon supposed.

He gulped down his fish and his tea before leaving. “You don't have to come on my account,” he said when Angrod stumbled after him.

Angrod laughed easily, “Oh no, don't be silly. I needed to step out for a moment anyhow. Where are you going? To bed?”

Fingon nodded. It was getting dark. There was not much else to do.

Angrod followed him, filling Fingon's silence with chatter and questions to get Fingon to engage. He remained while Fingon shrugged on his sleeping clothes and watched him climb into bed before leaving with a cheerful goodbye.

Fingon wondered if they would have locked him in if the tent had allowed for it.

He turned around and fell asleep the next moment.

* * *

Every day there was work and every day Fingon did it without complaint.

Fingon attended meetings, sitting by his father's left while his siblings and cousins stood off to the side. He did not have much to contribute but the room would fall silent when he talked.

He hewed his rows and when they would not get even, he broke the wooden handle of the hoe over his knee and went hunting instead.

Time passed both blindingly fast and seemingly not at all.

His family kept him under close watch, what for Fingon was not even fully sure.

And then one day they could see a runner from the Fëanorian camp sprint along the edge of the lake, steadily towards them.

His message brought tumult into the encampment and when Fingon returned, two skinny rabbits slung over his shoulder, he was told the message in dozen iterations. Everyone seemed to want to be the first one to tell him.

Maedhros was awake.


	4. Awake, O Sleeper, and Arise From the Dead

He grabbed only his sword and even that only because Lalwen thrust it upon him and threatened all manners of things until it was strapped to his side. She also pulled the rabbits from him and then Fingon was already half-way along the waterfront. Gravel crunched underneath his boots as he hurried along briskly. Though he did not run, he was certainly walking quite energetic.

A nervous sort of vigour had overtaken him. Anxious excitement hastened him onwards, towards the camp where faint wisps of smoke trailed lazily in the air and the sound of hammering could be heard.

Maglor, with his ill-fitting crown and his half-drooping ears, greeted him at the gates and on the way he briefed Fingon. As they passed, guards saluted sharply. Maglor paid them no mind. Nor when they trailed behind the two elves. Neither did Fingon.

It was not the infirmary they walked towards, rather a smaller longhouse with an eight-pointed star carved over the door. By far, it was here that most of the artistic focus had been centred towards. Which was still nothing compared to the splendour the cities back home had been decorated with.

Maglor did not open the door at once, instead he turned towards Fingon, “He, ah, gave us quite the scare when he started screaming. But he is awake, was awake. He might be sleeping. We shall see.” His ears flicked, “He has been drifting in and out for a while. Try to be accommodating. He is still a little out of it. Not that I blame him.”

Fingon nodded and wondered dimly where all of Maglor's brothers were. How many had he met since shortly after his return? Well, perhaps they were busy elsewhere, though it was felt strange to see them not together.

Maglor continued on as they walked. Visibly ill at-ease, though Fingon knew not if it was because of himself.

When he was done rambling, Maglor led him inside and bid him to wait in the front in the same breath. He squirrelled away hastily, his cloak tangled on a chair and he would have swept it over if he had not caught it and sheepishly put it back.

Then he vanished and Fingon pricked his ears at the sounds of soft murmuring.

When Maglor returned to usher Fingon deeper into the living space, he gave Fingon a last bit of advice, “Make a little noise before you approach, so he can hear you. He gets...startled easily. I will...wait outside, I suppose. Or one of the others, if I am needed.”

And with that, Fingon was alone.

Alone with Maedhros. He longed for it only a little more than he dreaded the thought of meeting the sad, tortured creature he had saved from the mountain. What was left of Maedhros?

The further he went into the longhouse, the warmer it became. At first, in the lobby, it was barely noticeable. But here, only feet away from the door, it was enough for Fingon to open the clasp of his cloak.

Fingon stomped his feet a little before he entered, like one might when trying to kick off snow from one's boots. That was hopefully sufficient, Fingon could not imagine Maedhros would really appreciate him kicking up a ruckus just in front of his bed.

Maedhros did not turn when Fingon entered, but he also did not scream, so perhaps Fingon had done everything right. How small and insignificant Maedhros looked, stick-thin limbs all hidden under several thick blankets. He was still shaking, despite the insulation, if only barely.

A fire roared in the furnace, a pot with something hung over the blaze. The smell of cloying herbs filled the sweltering air. Fingon sighed into the warm air.

Maedhros' face was pointed towards the ceiling, unseeing and unreadable, resting on a thin pillow so he was laying flat on the mattress. A hand curled into the blanket, flexing, relaxing.

The bandages around his eyes looked clean, Fingon was glad for it but chastised himself for the thought the next moment. It was not his comfort that was important.

Fingon did not know what to say and the longer he stood there, half by the bed and half by the door, made it harder to think of something. But he could not forget the last words exchanged. The way Maedhros had begged to kill him.

There came a terrible rasp from Maedhros, growling and deep and horribly, _horribly_ wet. It was only after a moment of plastering his ears back in shock that Fingon knew it to be laughter.

“Just going to stand there?” asked Maedhros as he turned lightly, only his head moved, and his voice sounded terrible.

Nothing of what it once had been remained. It was now only... _sound_, no tone, no cadence. Hoarse and harsh like jagged rock grinding against each other. As if he had screamed and screamed until all semblance of it had vanished, which was most likely what had happened. “I promise I am not as horrid as I look.”

Fingon blinked stupidly but caught his thoughts and seated himself on the stool that stood next to the bed. “I'm glad you're awake.”

Maedhros laughed again and the sound was, so close by, somehow even worse. Fingon could hear the tortured voice strain itself. “Me too. Didn't think I had it in me, honestly,”

_Please --have mercy; Kill me, _please_. I cannot bear it any longer. Please_

Fingon shook his head. Though Maedhros could not see, he smiled, “Don't say that, you were always made from sterner stuff.”

Maedhros grinned, the stitches across his mouth strained, though none popped. “You honour me, Fingon. Or rather, should I call you by one of your titles now, my saviour? We have a few to choose from now.” He shifted around, the blanket shifted a little and a skeletal hand carefully scratched around one of the stitches that itched him, “Eagle Rider the nurses call you, did you know? Fingon the _Valiant_. And though not a title, they also do sigh forlornly whenever the conversation shifts towards the topic.”

“Stars, help me,” called Fingon and laughed, his cheeks felt quite warm all of a sudden. “I was at no point not nauseous while flying, I tell you. It did not make a stirring sight, I think I nearly fell off towards the end.”

“Shame I didn't get to see it. I mean, I was _there,_” said Maedhros, “But I was occupied otherwise.” Clearly he was not done harrowing Fingon, not as long as there was fun to be had, “My nurses do like to talk, most of that swooning about you while they think I am not listening.”

Fingon laughed but could not bring himself to make jokes about Maedhros' condition. Too painful it felt and he was not certain it was appropriate in any context. “Get other nurses then, if it bothers you so.”

“And then what? Get others who swoon and sing praise to Fingon the Valiant? These ones can at least sing, it's nice. It has been so long since I heard singing, Fingon. Anything, really.”

What could one say after this? Fingon was not certain but tried regardless to keep Maedhros' spirit high, “I'm sorry.” Well, he had tried, at least. But his mind drew blanks.

Maedhros laughed again, “Don't be. I am _home, _Fingon. Home. I would never dreamed it possible. Never. And yet here I am. And there you are. And somehow you do not resent me as much as I deserve.”

There was a time where Fingon would have agreed with that. When he would have thought of any punishment too light all the while beating Maedhros senseless, most likely. But how could one wish to beat someone this hurt already? It would have been monstrous.

“Well, I believe you paid whatever due you owed,” said Fingon and tented his fingers, “More times than anyone ever should. You did not deserve it.”

Maedhros smiled wryly, “Some would fight you on that.”

“They shall only try,” said Fingon and meant it.

“Ah, my hero, once more he comes to my rescue,” said Maedhros and yawned. “But you have been treated well, I hope? We have some...zealous devotees to father's cause. They haven't been spewing nonsense again, have they?”

Fingon shook his head, remembered that he would not be seen and cleared his throat, “No, no I'm fine. We are trading--” Fingon thought, “Traffic has picked up. We have visitors and visit in turn. Some, at least. There are still those that are...ah, well...”

Maedhros breached the silence before it could grow awkward and kill what had been a companionable mood so far. “I'm glad. Not that I doubted Maglor's proficiency...” he gave a crooked smile, impish almost, “Well, perhaps a tad. Don't tell him that, he tries his hardest. But as long as he keeps them in line a little, perhaps we will have this nasty business behind us.”

Fingon remembered the Ice. The depravity. The hopeless anger always burning, sometimes the only warmth they had. How would one begin reparations for this? Aside from Maedhros, who truly had suffered enough. Far too much.

But the other Fëanorians? Without visible hurt and camps that decorated by carvings when Fingon's side had barely managed to make cucumber trellises?

Fingon did not voice this thought. Instead he hummed amicably and watched Maedhros growing tired before his eyes. His energy waned quickly and he began fumbling for his thoughts. Once or twice, he asked the same questions he had just gotten answered and finally he grew silent for longer and longer stretches of time.

But he did not order Fingon away and so Fingon remained, though conversation had nearly ceased at that point.

After a while, Maedhros shifted. “Fingon? Are you still here?”

“Mhm, yes,” said Fingon and shifted to make a little noise. Perhaps it would set Maedhros at ease.

“Ah, how nice. I was just thinking...about...thinking something. But I cannot remember now.”

“I can wait. You should rest,” said Fingon when it became clear that Maedhros did not have many thoughts left unscrambled and instead only teetered at the very edge of wakefullness.

Maedhros hummed and gasped once, coughing wetly. “You will come back?”

He was tired himself, Fingon found. Oddly tired, though he had barely done anything. “Of course. But sleep now. It's alright.”

“Sleep, yes—that sounds... nice...” Maedhros lilted, already more asleep than awake. His hands fumbled for the blanket and Fingon pulled it higher, just short of his chin. He resisted the sudden impulse to stroke his hair, it was not his right and he did not wish to startle Maedhros.

Exhaling, Maedhros hummed and the sound stuttered off, growing quiet until his strained breathing overtook the silence. It was hard to tell if he was already asleep or simply too drained to continue.

Either way, Fingon made care to leave quietly.

“I am glad --so very _glad_... That you are here with me,” said Maedhros and the last vestiges of consciousness faded away into dreamless sleep.

Fingon felt his chest ache, from joy and from sorrow likewise, neither one winning out over the other. “I am glad we are together,” said Fingon and smiled softly.

“Yes,” Maedhros agreed and fell asleep, though not without a last thought voiced, “Together. Though what a shame that I cannot remember your face...”

Fingon did not turn around, nor did he speak. It would not have mattered. Maedhros did not see him shudder and perhaps that was for the best.

Fingon left in a hurry and did not stop when Maglor called out to him.


	5. Just as Bad

Sometimes one could do nothing but wait. Fingon found out anew that he did not at all care for waiting. He wished to do... Anything really. But he could not. Not yet.

His father and the quartermaster were still going over the newest list of never ending things needed to be traded for. Fingon had nothing to offer to the conversation and so he had opted to wait. Admittedly, now in hindsight, that had been a mistake. He could have had at least trailed behind them as they talked.

Instead Turgon had gone with them and he very much had to offer quite the insight.

It was just as well. Fingon had already volunteered to bring the list over and make attempts at bargaining. The key word was attempt.

“I am still mad at him,” said Aredhel as she sat in front of the window sill. A cage with two white pigeons stood beside her, the birds cooing quietly and picking at seeds laid out for them. Aredhel squinted into the distance, a thin piece of paper spread out in front of her.

Fingon stood near the empty shelf. Well, empty safe a few dried flowers in a simple clay cup. Simple but still well made. One of the things they had started to make themselves; There was a clay deposit nearby and the moment the prospectors had told them of their finds, mining had begun in earnest.

It was nothing too exciting yet. Fingon supposed it did what it was supposed to, though it had nothing to offer beyond that.

“Hm,” he hummed and watched another white pigeon land near Aredhel. A little strip of paper bound to its foot. The bird crooned, blinked and preened before Aredhel picked it up, loosened the message and traded the pigeon out for one of her own.

There was twine traded from the Fëanorians. Paper, which was traded, ink also. Fingon tried to think if the feather quills were also traded but turned up empty.

How long had she been at this? There were identical strips of thin mulberry paper spread out and weighed down by her inkwell already.

But Fingon had not truly paid it any mind.

The paper she had prepared she carefully tied around her pigeon and let it fly. “Don't think I will forgive him, just like that.”

“Hmh...” Fingon h'mmed.

“Because I _won't,_” she informed her brother before turning back resolutely. Her feather tapped lightly against her chin, brow furrowed in thought. She stroked the pigeon's head and the bird cooed and warbled contently.

Fingon glanced over just as Aredhel released her bird, and watched it fly away. “Don't wear the pigeons out so much. They might be needed for correspondence later.”

She snorted but did not turn, “Yes, just like I am doing now.”

Turgon was away and so he could not talk sense into her. Fingon had never been good at making sense. He had always been more the type to get pulled into these insanities rather than end them.

And though this was still quite tame compared to some of the things they had gotten themselves tangled up in their childhood, it was still just as needless.

“You could simply visit,” Fingon suggested.

“No,” said Aredhel and with that the argument was over.

It did help that Fingolfin chose this moment to enter the room, his hair unbound but his circlet still atop his head. He sighed and slumped just a little when Turgon closed the door behind him.

“Our work is done. Fingon, if you would be so kind...”

Turgon offered him the scroll he carried under his arm and Fingon took it. “It is as good as done.”

* * *

Caranthir took the scroll, unfurled it and went over the points written down in neat, compact script, “That's all?”

“For now,” Fingon replied. “We offer pottery and what foraged goods we can spare; Until we have established cattle stock of our own, that is the extent of our food contribution.” Fingon wrinkled his brow, “I mean, we have cucumbers and tomatoes, if you want them. Something can be arranged.”

“Yes, yes, keep your vegetables. Pots are well enough, though I have some additional demands.” Caranthir waved him off. “I will make a list, go entertain my brother, or something.”

It was spoken in the same way an exasperated parent might say “Go out and play” but Fingon did not argue and instead wandered off to find Maedhros.

Fingon did not press further on what Maedhros had said. What good would it have done? Other than upset Maedhros unnecessarily which Fingon did not wish to be the cause of.

And so he continued his visits when he could. Between work and training and woefully inadequate amounts of sleep, Fingon would wander the path towards the camp, by now as familiar as his own living quarters.

Maedhros had been seated outside, slumped in a thickly upholstered high-backed chair, underneath the shade of a mighty oak. He was wrapped in blankets, so many that he looked like a little hill made from wool.

Close by stood a whole battalion of guards, though none tensed when they saw Fingon approach. He was by now a very familiar sight.

Another chair stood next to Maedhros, nearly fully turned towards him and Fingon sat after clearing his throat. Maedhros grinned and sat a little straighter. “What does your father say about you running off all the time to visit me, I wonder?”

Fingon leaned back in his chair, “Bold of you to assume it was me,” he said and smiled.

The chair was rather wide, to accommodate all the furs that had been spread out. All to accommodate Maedhros with something soft to sit on. He shifted around“No one else walks like a drunk deer, Fingon. You have a little hop, a _bounce _every few steps or so. I would have been very surprised if it had not been you.”

“Aredhel got my ankle,” said Fingon and pressed his ears back, challenged. “I want to see you trying to walk straight after she nearly breaks your shins.” And my father does not mind; As long as I do not drink heavily and set anything on fire--” his ears swivelled around. Perhaps he had gone to far.

But Maedhros only laughed, “Ah, but if there is no one drowning in alcohol at any given time, how can you truly call it a worthwhile affair? Really, you should know better by now. Might help with pain, you never know. Until you try.”

Fingon hummed and tilted his head until the light blinded him, “Alcohol or no, it is rather nice spending the day with you.”

Hoarse laughter followed, “Flatterer, but those are just the concussions speaking, it is all a matter of perspective.” He raised his head while Fingon was busy trying to find a clever quip. “Ah, it appears that our lunch is here.”

Fingon looked up and saw a gaggle of servants carry between them a table and food. “Do they also bounce like drunken deer?” he asked and grinned when Maedhros flicked his ears.

“Hush, I will not have you insult those that regularly have to watch my antics.”

“You exaggerate, you are still healing and one can hardly blame you.”

Maedhros gave a wry smile, “You say that. But wait until you witness me eat; You will beg your sister to beat you senseless.”

Fingon remembered the other times he had visited. Maedhros had only ever eaten what could be very generously called broth. Nearly nothing but water and a little stock. And the moment he had been able to lift anything by himself, Maedhros had insisted on eating by himself, with mixed results. But it was not as if spilling some was the end of good manners. “I _have_ seen you eat, it is not that impressive,” Fingon assured him.

“Oh-ho,” said Maedhros and flicked his torn ears, “We are trying for solids today, so you might want to hold off your expectations. It could get quite ugly later.”

“You know how to whet one's appetite,” Fingon remarked and drew his legs in so the servants could set up the table.

Maedhros grinned at that but opted for silence until the table was set and food was served.

There was chicken, steamed vegetables and some soup, though Maedhros' portion was far tinier than Fingon's.

Maedhros portion had been carefully measured, already cut and, though Maedhros had no way of seeing it, lovingly arranged with just a bit of parsley.

There was also a bucket close by. In case it did not agree with him.

“Please, do go ahead, don't wait on my behalf,” said Maedhros while he fished for his own fork with bony fingers. He fumbled along, carefully as to not sweep anything off the table until he found it whereas he seized it with no small amount of smug victory.

Fingon did as he was bidden and dug in, though he watched Maedhros carefully.

Maedhros ate and though Fingon had gotten the lion's share of the portion, he was still far faster done. This had surely nothing to do that he tended to inhale his meals.

But Maedhros seemed undeterred and though sometimes his fork would come away empty and he would find only metal in his mouth, he nonetheless continued.

“And I suppose now we wait,” said Maedhros after he too had finished. The effort had strained him, Fingon could see it quite plainly. A thin sheen of sweet made him look oily and sick in the light, and Maedhros leaned back heavily in his chair and heaved for breath. But he smiled. “Wish me luck,” he said wearily as he rested.

“How was it?” asked Fingon as the servants carried the leftovers away, well, Maedhros' leftovers. Tea was served, though it was peppermint and in Maedhros' case very watery.

“Delectable. Though I suppose after the fare I was used to, everything tastes scrumptious. My shoe would taste better than that maggoty bread they had.”

Fingon laughed, “We needn't resort to shoes; There are desserts far better than that.”

“Are there ever, though I think I shall pass on that for now.”

For a while they sat in companionable silence. But the warmest part of the day passed quickly and though Fingon barely felt a difference, Maedhros gasped audibly and vanished deeper into his wool-hill. He gave a curt order and the soldiers moved to carry him back inside on his chair. It had handles at the legs, Fingon had not seen them before.

He followed behind and when Maedhros had been helped inside and into bed, Fingon sat down on the now vacant chair instead of the stool that stood in the corner. He rolled his back into the furs behind him, revelling in the texture.

Then he cracked his joints and Maedhros twitched his ears and hissed.

Before it could get too silent, Fingon smacked his lips and said, “Aredhel has been writing quite diligently, all the while assuring me that she has no intention to forgive your brother.”

“Mhm,” Maedhros agreed, “I noticed. Celegorm has been coming to me, asking for things that rhyme with _meleth_. He does tend to rhyme words with themselves,” he coughed but smiled a moment later. “Normally I would send him to Maglor for that, but alas, my poor younger brother is just about stretched to his limits. And it is not as if I do not have the time.”

“Maglor looked rather...” Fingon cleared his throat and searched for words that would not demean Maglor unnecessarily, “--stressed.”

“Mh, he is. He feels the burden of leadership quite keenly. But, and I am sure you noticed,” Maedhros grinned into Fingon's general direction, “we are stubborn, Fingon. And so Maglor rules no matter how little it suits him and Celegorm stays on this side of the lake, writing supremely bad poetry instead of bending his proud head and apologise.”

“Share some of the prestige, Maedhros. I did not wander over the Ice for thirty years to be mocked as sensible. I would say it takes quite a bit of mulishness to do as we did.”

“Ah yes, I would never,” laughed Maedhros, “Such bullheadedness, such spite; I could barely hope to compete.”

And Fingon, proven to be the winner in this argument, smiled and leaned back in the far too large, far too plush chair, feet resting on the footstool.

Maedhros turned onto his side, groaning quietly as he strained through the motion. But it was far more than he had been able to do just a while ago and so there was at least a sign of betterment. “I do admit,” Maedhros smiled into the room, his stitched face turned into the general direction of Fingon, “You are, in some regards, just as bad as me.”


	6. Maedhros

Maedhros slept --for he could not remain awake, no matter how dearly he wished-- and dreamed terrors. They were terrors because they were memories, not merely feverish hallucinations of cruelties too horrible to name.

He knew not of the time. No light told him that he lazed the day away. No one had need of a cripple and so no one woke him from what they might imagine to be rest.

Maedhros could barely turn where he lay, too heavy was the blanket, too weak his bones. And while his useless, lamed body lay drenched and shivering on his cot, his mind stumbled through dreams.

The rattling of chains sounded through the room with his every laboured breath. Laughter, cruel and harsh whenever he held it.

And at the edge of his consciousness-- A voice beneath the murky waters of sleep.

He knew it to be a nightmare just as the last bit of restless sleep faded fully. He could feel himself scream before he could hear it, for his hearing was still claimed by the remnants of sleep. It did not particularly helpful to know, for it did neither ease nor dull the horror of it.

A wound hurt no less simply because one knew it to be a wound.

But even _His_ laugh quieted back into memories and so Maedhros could hear the wail wrenching from his own throat before he could stuff it back down. It did not help that the images of the dark cell, discoloured with grime and caked in gore, turned into utter darkness upon waking. Not at all.

He felt sheepish for screaming and came awake a thundering heartbeat earlier than the door came crashing into the wall, kicked open without any regard for the handle. Maedhros could hear hasty steps clearing the distance towards his bed, however long that was. He certainly could not tell.

“_Maedhros_!” It was Fingon, for of course it was always Fingon, who reached him. Maedhros could not see his friend, but he knew just as well that it was him. No one else in their camp came running quite like this since the novelty of it had run out. There was no attacker in his room, no enemy safe his own mind. And though Maedhros disagreed with the notion, no one seemed to think that a sword would help against that.

“Ah...” said Maedhros when the agonised wheezing did not take all his strength away any longer and he could speak once more. “I had hoped you would not hear that,” he said sheepishly and forced his fingers apart from where they clutched the blanket.

“I would be surprised if the whole camp had not heard you,” said Fingon from somewhere next to him before the wooden creak of a chair drowned out his sigh.

Maedhros stretched his lips into a wry smile and felt the stitches strain. His gums, raw and hot under his tongue where new teeth grew in, ached at the movement. “Well I would not be surprised if they would not be used to it by now. I am as reliable as any rooster.”

He could not see Fingon's reaction, nor did Fingon offer any audible reply at first and so it was as if Maedhros was alone once more. Alone in his little pocket of darkness until Fingon or anyone else would speak with him. His world had become small, without any light.

“You scared me,” said Fingon finally and Maedhros imagined his friend splaying himself into the far too large chair. It was difficult to envision it vividly, as if the mental image was blurred by fog, jumpy and indecisive. And of course his mind would turn towards images of rusted chains and dungeon walls if he did not force his entire mind to maintain the blurred image of what could lie before him at the moment.

“Do you often have nightmares that bad?” asked Fingon from behind the veil.

“I do yell quite often like a little girl, yes,” Maedhros said in the way of an answer. Perhaps it would be enough to let the matter rest.

“You are sweating, do you want me to get someone? I can't imagine that feels pleasant...”

It was not. To stew in his own fluids like this. He was sweating out sickness and poison, thirty years worth of it.

Fingon, ever the tactful one, even when flustered, had put it rather mildly. Maedhros could smell himself and it very nearly sickened him even after...how ever many weeks it had been now. Perhaps months. He could not tell.

“If I had known you wanted to play the errant boy so badly,” Maedhros laughed and laughed again at Fingon's indignant snort. “No, they already know I am awake, I am certain. We have a—system by now. Very efficient.”

“Dare I even ask?” came Fingon's reply, though he was already moving again to do something. Maedhros knew not what.

“You are free to wait outside. There are more exciting things than watching me bathe.”

“When did that ever stop me?” Fingon said. Maedhros wished he could see that smug smirk he remembered Fingon having. But it would not come together before his mind. All wrong. Like a drawing someone had erased the facial features from.

Maedhros did not remember the intricacies of their faces. No ones. Safe _One._ And for that one he did not care. Cared so little, in fact, that he pushed the memory aside violently. The memories were just like any other wound, really. One did not touch what should be left alone to heal. One did not dwell on it.

* * *

Fingon, ever faithful and likely bored Fingon, remained for Maedhros' bath. Maedhros could hear him having turned to the side to allow Maedhros his privacy. As private as one fussed over by a gaggle of servants while sitting helplessly in a tub could ever hope to be, at least.

“I remember the ponds on your parents estate,” said Fingon after a while. The servants had not gushed about Fingon, though Maedhros more than once heard muffled giggles behind raised hands. How very unsubtle. Though there was a chance Fingon did not notice.

“Ah yes, Maglor hated them all. Or at least all the ones I dragged him into during the hot seasons.”

“I will never understand why,” said Fingon, “Many a new creature was found in those. I liked the newts. Not so much the leeches.”

Maedhros smiled and felt it wavering at the same moment. He dreaded the water, did not wish it anywhere near his empty sockets. The feeling of liquid sliding along the raw flesh, into the depths of his skull...

His attendants were careful, at least. If he held still he would not suffer. Such was the idea at least.

One of them seemed quite adamant to strike up a conversation with Fingon, voice quick and fluttery and very obviously infatuated. “They are very useful for medical purposes!”

“They are?” asked Fingon and sounded just as surprised as he did sickened by the very idea. It seemed to be all the invitation needed, for the flurry of information about leeches picked up once more and this time Fingon had barely the time to make affirmative noises.

Maedhros smiled wryly into the towel in his hands at the tone and listened to their conversation with vapid, detached interest.

Rîl-something, something-rîl. Maedhros did not remember the boy's name, only that he was young. Younger than his other nurses; The son of one of them, perhaps. He hardly cared to find out.

How very unkind, though Maedhros could scarcely bring himself to feel guilty for it. He could barely keep together the memories from before his capture, how could he be expected to remember so many new things all at once so soon?

It was as if he drifted through darkness, separated from the world around him. Numb to the brilliant lives all around him. He could not reach out. He could not feel. He could not _see._

He gasped and violently shoved away the thoughts that plagued him. No one knew just why he had flinched and cursed lowly under his breath and the sounds were mistaken for discomfort. Conversations ceased and he was once more the absolute centre of attention in the worst possible kind.

They fussed about him, even Fingon, as they frantically tried to ease whatever ailed him and finally clothed him and brought him back to his bed.

The carefree mood had been utterly shaken and Maedhros cursed the fact that he had not paid any attention to it. He had never been a wanting listener, had always made time and heeded conversations around him. But now he was so easily distracted.

With no idea just what had transpired between Fingon and Maedhros' caregiver, he was left flailing to pick up the threads of conversation and felt a tremendous headache brewing behind his forehead when he inadvertently failed. He did not even know why he felt the pressing need to do so. But he knew he needed to.

Fingon gave a thoughtful hum, “You know, in spite of everything I just learned, I still don't like leeches.”

Maedhros jumped at the chance like a desperate feline for a mouse, “After that heartfelt presentation? You are breaking hearts left and right, Fingon.”

“It sounded utterly revolting,” Fingon informed him and made sounds of shuddering disgust.

“Be glad you never needed them then,” said Maedhros. He spoke from experience, but even though he liked making Fingon squirm, he would not regale him with the tale of his ongoing, messy recovery. Not that he needed to. Two of the nurses returned to change his bandages.

This time Fingon did leave, not that Maedhros could blame him. He would have also rather been somewhere else.

The bandages stuck to his skin where they had dried and melded into the skin, they itched from moisture and hurt when peeled off.

He was glad Fingon did not see him like this, did not hear him whimper as they did their work.

When Fingon returned, Maedhros had just wrested himself back under control and could almost believe himself that he looked composed and not like someone tottering at the edge of some manner of breakdown.

Fingon had brought food, which was nice, as was eating together. Though Maedhros was not entirely convinced that his own presence made any meal pleasant. All the more reason to appreciate Fingon's visits. There was hardly anything else he could do to repay him than be grateful.

Grateful that he still had a friend in this world.

One who did not mind that Maedhros choked down his food without even seeing it. How lucky he was.

They talked, about mundane nothings. How many lambs and calves the Fëanorians had given them, how Aredhel's tomato plant grew and how Fingon had seen a fawn on his way to the camp.

And then, all to soon, Maedhros became tired. Too tired to continue, no matter how much he wished for it. And Fingon, ever the worried friend, left him to his rest.

Maedhros wished him goodbye and once he knew himself to be utterly alone once more, he rolled up into his blankets and dreaded sleep. What else could he do? He could not even read to distract himself. Could not go for a walk. Could do nothing but take up and space and waste resources.

He wished Fingon had stayed. Or that he himself was dead.

But neither happened and so he could do nothing but remember what he dearly wished forgotten.

He slept and the terror began anew.


	7. Blessed Is The One Who Reads Aloud

They found a large cluster of blackberry bushes not even a hundred feet away from where they had encountered a group of orcs. Horrible beasts, certainly, though much more agreeable when killed.

While picking, and maybe taking the choicest berries for himself, Fingon dimly wondered if the lack of sympathy for the bloodied gore that had once been orcs --and before that elves-- was something to be concerned about.

A small part of him insisted that they should take a moment to mourn these poor souls, to grieve for life twisted and opportunities destroyed and lament for those forced into horrid shadows of their former selves.

But lamenting did not do all that much and honestly, the blackberries would not pick themselves.

He had taken his helmet off, for the sensation of metal enveloping his head was strange and uncomfortable and he had not brought a basket to gather fruit in. The helmet did in a pinch and he was not the only one to do it.

There was still the smell of blood around them, Fingon had cleaned his sword on a dirtied rag. it was not as if the orc would have objected to it, but that still left the splatters over his armour. They reeked, of sweat, of blood and fear and Fingon wrinkled his nose at the heavy copper stench. It seemed to cling to the edge of Fingon's perception, not enough to cloy, just enough to be noticeable.

Fingon snorted and turned back to his berries. He bit down, tasted the tartness and wished for some sweetener to go with it. But it would do. It was more than he had had been able to get compared to the Ice. Which was admittedly not that hard a feat, but Fingon counted his victories where he could get them.

“Has been some time since I had cobbler,” said Laegion next to him, bow slung lazily over his shoulder. He was taller than Fingon and snatched the highest berries for his own consumption.

“It will most likely remain like that for a while,” the one next to him, Cabedir, replied.

Fingon remembered the pie his grandmother had used to make.

Sometimes the small things hurt the fiercest. He had never asked her for the recipe...

Laegion stretched and his bow bumped lightly against Fingon who flinched, torn from his thoughts. A breeze caressed Fingon's face, he did not breathe, for the wind carried with it the smell of the orcs behind them.

There was laughter and jests and the smell of blackberries filled the air. Everyone was careful not to look too closely towards the lifeless forms that had once been much like themselves.

* * *

Fingon brought with him some of the blackberries and casually forgot to mention the orcs.

Maedhros praised his friend's frugality, his resourcefulness and not an hour later he was bowed over a bucket and heaved all that he had eaten back up.

“I'm sorry about that,” said Fingon, ears back and feeling terribly stupid. He sat next to Maedhros, a hand on his back. With the other, he carefully wiped away the foamy sweat that formed on Maedhros' brow.

Maedhros, when his face was not buried in the bucket, waved him off. “It is my fault,” he said and dove back right after. The retching continued for a while. “I should know better by now,” Maedhros said finally and smiled weakly.

Fingon had nothing to reply to that, but he did not leave Maedhros's side.

* * *

When it was over, Fingon helped Maedhros back to bed and graciously ignored the sharp bones poking into his side. Maedhros could not even stand by himself yet, though he groused and insisted that he could do it by himself. But he did not fight against the help.

“Well,” Maedhros croaked, when the blanket was pulled over his stick-like form, “That was certainly a nice way to spent the time.”

Fingon shook his head, not that Maedhros would have been able to see, “Don't joke about that, you worried me.”

Maedhros gave him a thin, strained smile, “Your cooking is not that bad, Fingon.”

“Your demonstration begs to differ,” Fingon replied. “I will get you something to drink. And a sprig of mint...” he turned, one hand resting against the door handle, “Can you even eat that without spewing again?”

Maedhros tutted in mock disdain and shook his head. For but a moment the cultured, studious prince returned to scold Fingon. Right up until Maedhros breathed out a sour burp and recoiled at the taste of his own bile. But he was not done teasing, “How vulgar, Fingon. A hero should conduct himself with a little more grace.”

“It heartens me to see you so lively,” Fingon called cheerfully and vanished through the door.

* * *

Fingon had also fetched something to read, he felt quite terrible for Maedhros predicament and offered to read from the scrolls he had scavenged. There were no books for leisure yet. At least not easily recovered ones. There had been brought some, but the elves in possession of those would most likely not part with them voluntarily. Just like that, books had become a rare luxury, the contents of them worthy of heirlooms.

But there were scrolls with tales and stories and whatever else could be remembered and had been hastily jotted down. Fingon had managed to snag one of those along with several reports about what he did not even know until he began reading. And not even then was he always sure.

What he now had was an abbreviated version of a story from Aman. About a prince who one day did not wish to be a prince any longer and traded his very own being for his wish. Fingon carefully read it out loud while Maedhros provided running commentary. And then finally, “Fingon,” Maedhros admonished, “You read so flat and lifeless. Give it a little emphasizing, if you would?”

Fingon rolled his eyes but smirked. It was very much like it had been in Aman, to some extend. When Maedhros had taken over lessons and though he was all smiles and games and mischief outside of class, in the moments he taught, he was as stern as any schoolmarm Fingon knew.

It had always been endless fun to rile him up. Just as it was now. What followed would have made Fëanor roll in his grave, had there been anything but ash left.

Fingon took great care to pronounce every word, every syllable, with his voice rising and falling at times like waves. All the wrong times, admittedly, and the words were pronounced at the strangest times until they barely sounded decipherable any longer. But he did as Maedhros had bidden.

Maedhros scoffed once but sunk lower into the pillows, more at ease than before. A small smile, barely visible, graced his lips and he hummed nearly serenely once or twice as Fingon babbled along.

Really, all that was missing was something sweet to drink and perhaps a proper tree to lean against and they could as well be...home.

“Fingon?” Maedhros asked and Fingon flinched away from the scrolls and looked up, sheepish.

“Hm?” Fingon asked and felt his throat clenched and choked. But his eyes were dry and whatever sadness might have welled in his chest lay locked away in a cell made from ice. Instead he hrumphed and shuffled the paper in his grasp around.

Maedhros twitched his ears but did not comment on Fingon's hoarseness, “You sound a little rough, have something to drink. There is no need to strain yourself over me, I assure you.”

Fingon drank from the water, as instructed. It was not the sweet, syrupy drink from home; The memory of its taste dance just above his tongue. He could nearly taste it. Almost. Infuriating, but there was precious little to do about that.

A hand found his lap, clumsily feeling around for Fingon's wrist. Fingon flinched at the contact, he had looked at Maedhros' unmoving face. Maedhros had not turned, still turned towards the ceiling. But his hand fumbled around and closed bony fingers around Fingon's own.

“Thin you are,” Maedhros noted softly and squeezed Fingon's fingers without any strength behind the gesture. He felt cold against Fingon.

Fingon barked a laugh, far harsher and shorter than he meant it to be. But something about the whole situation was so utterly removed, so silly, he could not help himself. “_I'm_ thin?” he said and grinned. _Have you seen yourself lately?_ he did not say.

Maedhros laughed as well, a roguish smirk pulling at the remaining stitches, “You are. Like a rake. Do they not feed you right on your side? That won't do. You will have to come over for supper more often.”

“Doesn't seem to help you any,” Fingon replied and brought his free hand over Maedhros'. Loose paper rustled and fell from Fingon's lap as he settled more comfortably.

“_Rude_, Fingon. This is what peak perfection looks like. I haven't felt better in years.”

Fingon laughed.

* * *

They ate in the longhouse. The weather would have permitted to sit outside, but after his bout of sickness, Maedhros was in no condition to undertake such strenuous activities.

Not once were they disturbed after their meals had been served. Did none of Maedhros' brothers eat with him?

It was not his place to question nor condemn any of them. Well, it was, but for different reasons. And Maedhros seemed unbothered. So who was Fingon to throw a fit and disturb what was a perfectly lovely supper?

Maedhros fumbled around the table until he found his cup and manoeuvred it to his mouth.

“It has been getting warmer,” Maedhros said after he finished. “Perhaps I will be able to leave some of the blankets behind when I get dragged outside next.”

“Don't make it sound so unpleasant. The air will do you good,” Fingon said and filled their cups again.

“It would be _quite_ a lot more pleasant if I could walk on my own.”

“Soon, there is no rush.” Well, there _was_, but what good would it do to remind Maedhros of the painfully obvious. And what good would it do to haste Maedhros through something he had no control over?

Maedhros rumbled through his bite of chicken and turned his head around as if to shake loose some manner of annoying insect and sighed deeply.

Fingon took pity on him and moved from his own seat to Maedhros' bed to sit down at the edge of it. It was a slim cot, there was not much room to wiggle about for comfort without sitting on Maedhros which would have been awkward and miserable for everyone involved.

But Fingon made due with what he had. He could not quite meet Maedhros bandaged face and instead looked at the spot behind him. “Don't be so eager, Maedhros. There is enough work to saddle you with the moment you can stand, I am certain.”

Maedhros sighed and it sounded so terribly forlorn that Fingon's ears pressed to the side of his head, “I am not certain I would not welcome it... It is...so _hard_ to stand idle all day and night.” Maedhros said. He looked tired. So terribly tired and yet unable to rest.

“Maedhros...” Fingon said and faltered, for no words came to him and he did not wish to ramble uselessly. On the Ice, there had been moments were continuing on had seemed impossible. Absolutely impossible. When all else, the desire for their goal, for food for survival, all that had somehow...stopped mattering. All he had wanted to do was lie down and sleep forever.

Those were the latter stages of someone about to freeze to death and so the remedy for that was to walk. To move no matter how many times he had to be beaten to it. It was not as if they had anything else to do but either move or die. Looking back, it was hard to tell just how Fingon had prevailed when so many he had known had not.

And yet here he was. Next to Maedhros who had prevailed through an entirely different trial.

Maedhros grew tired of the silence first and laughed, “Just listen to me pitying myself. As if we have no other problems.”

“Well...”

“Hush, no, enough of that. Instead regale me with another one of these reports. They are fine enough to pass the time for now.”

And Fingon was certainly happy and very eager to oblige.


	8. Long Hair, It Is His Glory

“You are not wearing your gold,” Maedhros said when they once more met. Maedhros now sat up in his bed, no longer limply hanging against the headrest and the dozens of pillows behind him. The stitches in his face had nearly all vanished, leaving behind discoloured welts and puffed, red scars.

The bandages over his upper face remained.

Fingon did not keep track of time, not of months nor weeks or night or day. There was asleep and awake, meals and work. Family and Maedhros. In between these things there was nothing.

Most of the time spent with Maedhros was either used to read to him or conversing while Fingon desperately tried to skirt around any and all things that could upset Maedhros. Not very subtly, but Fingon had never been the subtle one.

To be fair, Maedhros did the same for him and together they danced awkwardly around each other; Talking but never speaking about anything too profound, never serious. Only the surface was ever touched, like mayflies above the lazy lakes of summer. Neither dared to see what lay beneath the surface. They had bantered and laughed and then Maedhros had fumbled around, nearly stabbed Fingon in the nostril from his sudden burst of uncoordinated speed and grabbed for his hair.

The fact that Fingon had trouble remembering when last they had shared such casual contact bothered him. But he did not have the proper words to voice that notion without fumbling or sounding stupid, and so he remained silent on the matter.

The fingers in his hair retreated, though the pinpricks of warmth were they had rested briefly against his scalp lingered a little while longer. “Well, no,” Fingon agreed and gathered the locks hanging over his chest, bringing them back behind his ears. It felt strange to have them completely free.

“Why? You always loved to wear them...” Maedhros said and sounded, only for a moment, like the most miserable elf there was. But even faster than it had come, the expression vanished and he grinned lopsided. His teeth had all grown back, though it was still incredibly obvious that they had been missing not too long ago, shorter than the rest as they were. “Far be it for me to dictate how you dress, of course.” He fumbled with his fingers, one hand wandering over the endless bumps and ridges of the other.

Fingon hummed in something that hopefully sounded like mirthful understanding. The memory of Maedhros' fingers distracted him. They were cold, but beneath that, he could feel Maedhros' warmth.

In Aman they had never been shy about _contact_. They were friends, best friends whose personal spaces had been nearly non-existent with one another. There had been friendly poking in the ribs, nudging, brushing up against one another...

Why had he stopped? Which one of them had build the walls up? The fact that Fingon was not certain about it, if he was the cause or not, that bothered him. It had become increasingly hard to read himself. Like counting sand as the tide washed the grains away.

Maedhros coughed and nearly on instinct did Fingon hand him his water. “Thank you,” Maedhros croaked after the fit had subsided. “Well?”

“Well what?” Fingon asked, for he had completely lost the thread of their conversation and hoped Maedhros would hand it back to him.

Maedhros was nothing if not courteous, “Why are you not wearing your braids?”

“I _am_ wearing braids,” Fingon retorted. One could hardly work properly when one had hair falling their face all the time. “Well, one braid...And this mess.” He motioned at the strands hanging out, to and fro as they pleased. Too smooth to remain in the knot of some discarded strip of fabric.

Maedhros' lips crooked and then pursed in disapproval, “You know what I mean.”

The little spool on which Fingon had rolled up his golden threads so nothing would tangle. Yes, he knew exactly what Maedhros meant. He also knew where it was without doubt. He had not taken it out of his bag, the little spool, ever since they had arrived. On the Ice he had used to stare at it for long, sleepless hours, rolling it between his frozen, freezing hands.

“It feels--” Fingon said, paused to gather his thoughts and sighed, “Wrong... To wear finery like that while we work.”

They had just started to hew stone for better walls, stone taken from the quarries a few miles away. It was a gamble to send so many away each time, both masons and soldiers to protect them. But they could hardly remain behind wooden palisades and sleep in huts forever.

“_Fingon.”_

  
The Fëanorians had already begun construction on their second ring of walls, the first houses made from stone had begun to spring up too. And though their own side always limped behind, courtesy of the Fëanorians thirty years of lead, trade had begun to pick up in earnest and at least some of the animosity had settled. It helped that the first kegs of wine had been shared between the camps.

“_Fingon?”_

Really, if one ignored the attacks and the sentries guarding them during the night and the utter lack of most luxuries they had ever known, it was nearly as if they were still home. Almost. But never quite. Too many of those they loved had been left behind or... sent back... hopefully. And so the gold remained in his bag and he did not bother with neat braids.

Findekáno had loved gold. Fingon, however, was too busy for it.

“Fingon!” Maedhros snapped suddenly, far louder than Fingon had heard him in a while. It was worry, mostly. Worry and uncertainty that Fingon had vanished in the middle of their conversation.

“Yes?” Fingon asked and desperately tried to keep out the little squeak of startled surprise that had nearly slipped into the question. It was very undignified and Fingon felt like a juvenile when that happened.

“_Ah_, there you are,” Maedhros said, relieved, “I thought you had left. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“It's fine, it's fine. I'm just—tired.” Fingon finished lamely and shrugged.

“I cannot blame you,” Maedhros said and laughed, “The work never ceases; Everyone wants a proper house now."

Fingon was not certain he could bear a closed space just yet again. At least one made from stone. For thirty years the only roof he had known was the endless sky, as harsh as it had been free. How strange that he had grown so attached to it, even as the Ice had tried its very hardest to end him. It had not been safe, not like a house would have been. And yet Fingon could not stand the confinement of walls.

"Amongst other things,” Maedhros grinned, “Just you wait, next they want statues and then carvings adorning every single wall and before you know it we will trip over decorations left and right.”

Fingon smiled, he could not help himself, “I shall send Turgon over, he will have a mountain of sketches left for perusal.”

“He never appeared like one who was driven by such ambition,” Maedhros finally admitted.

“He was _shy_, not some wilting flower,” Fingon clarified. The operative word was indeed _was_, for there was not much shyness left over in his brother. Only quiet contemplation and focused drive. And Turgon had good reasons for his fury and his anger, hadn't he? In some sense more than many others. But rage was no stranger to any of them, though to be fair, who of them wasn't at least somewhat resentful, really? 

All in different measures and with different outlets, but there was anger in most of the survivors. Perhaps it had been needed to carry on.

“Ah yes,” Maedhros said. “I know, I am merely teasing.” His hands had started to fiddle again, this time with the empty cup he still held. Tapping along the rim with no longer bandaged fingers. He had fingernails again. “Does he still design castles?”

Fingon smiled at the memories of endless unrealised blueprints but could not answer. He could not remember when last he had watched his brother draw.

* * *

Fingolfin carried himself with the same sense of aloof regality that Fingon had always known him by. It was comforting, in a way, to know that his father was still the same unshakable rock to lean on he had always appeared to Fingon. At least on the outside. But it was enough.

Fingon counted himself lucky to have at least one parent with him, as juvenile as he knew the words might have sounded. But that did not stop him from sitting at his father's feet, head resting against Fingolfin's knees. His father's hand combed through Fingon's hair, different than Maedhros' had. Fingolfin ministrations were those of a father who knew what choice bits and pieces could end up in his son's hair and did what was necessary.

“How did you manage to get so many twigs in your hair?” asked Fingolfin and picked out another little piece of wood. It joined the others already piled neatly on the table.

“Shortcut through the fringes,” Fingon said for he would not lie to his father if he could avoid it. Omitting details was not lying.

He had wanted blackberries. In hindsight, not getting an escort had most likely been foolish. But Fingon could not bring himself to care either way. Well, he _would, _should something happen; He was not keen on swallowing his words if he should be so unlucky to get abducted. Because then he very much _would _mind.

“Fingon...” Fingolfin sighed and shook his head, exasperated like a father scolding his son. Which, coincidentally, he was. “The guards I appointed you keep you safe, Fingon. You needn't make their lives more difficult by running off alone whenever they turn around.”

Fingon hummed, he was aware, dimly, that he sounded _amazingly _distracted. Why had Maedhros done what he had done? Had he expected Fingon to return the gesture? Had he wished for contact? For touch? Fingon could hardly blame him if he did. It was rather silly, was it not? That they could not speak openly with one another any longer.

“I see what Aredhel was talking about...” Fingolfin said above him, fingers resting on Fingon's brow.

That got Fingon's attention, “Hm? What? What did she say?”

“Fingon, you are becoming withdrawn,” Fingolfin said and when Fingon made to protest, he pressed his fingers over Fingon's lips to keep them closed. He had not done that since a very small Findekáno had used to interrupt him at every sentence. “Ah, let me finish,” he said and this too felt like an old memory come back to life.

“We worry about you, Fingon.”

“I am no worse off than everyone else,” Fingon said around his clamped lips.

Fingolfin hummed, the note sounded light, far too gentle for Fingon's tastes. “You were always more sensitive than your siblings. And to witness what you did, to see what they did to your friend...”

Fingon shook his head, he did not wish to be pitied, for he was one of the ones well off. He was not hurt, had most of his family with him...

All thoughts of calm and comfort forgotten. “I do not want to continue this. If I may be permitted to step outside?”

His father gave him a terrible sad look; Helpless, wounded almost. Fingon entertained the thought that he could not decide which one could look more miserable, his father or Maedhros.

But Fingolfin conceded until the awkward silence could grow too bloated, “Very well, take your leave. Until supper, then?”

Fingon nodded and felt a tremendous headache brewing just behind his eyes. “Until supper...”

He made his way outside, to find something to do and distract himself. He did not want to think about hands stroking his head, familiar and safe, not about misery and not about the need for guards.

He wished to stop thinking for a moment. 


	9. Rejoice In Hope, Be Patient In Tribulation

There was an undeniable routine to every day life now. Well, in between the everyday chaos that was normal and the chaos that was just terrible. There were fights outside the walls. They brought in their third harvest. They lost an entire group of soldiers and masons to an ambush. Fingon remembered the wake. The first children were born.

Turgon broke Fingon's arm during practice and spent an hour apologising and nearly a week trying to make it up to him.

But even that, though unpleasant, became routine.

And then one day, his arm long since healed and the injury forgotten, he stepped into the stone house that was Maedhros' abode and saw Maedhros standing near the table, a single step away from the bed. Standing on his own volition.

Fingon gasped. His mouth had fallen open for a moment before he brought it back under his control.

Maedhros did not turn towards him, there was neither any reason to _look_ nor did he seem to be able to spare the concentration. His stance was terrible, knees bend awkwardly. But he _stood_.

“That was supposed to be a surprise,” Maedhros finally said with a triumphant grin betraying his exasperated tone. He tilted his entire body a little to the side. For a moment Fingon thought him about to fall, but Maedhros caught himself into what appeared to be a single, wobbly step and used the momentum to heft himself forward another step.

“You're _walking_!” Fingon called when the absolute shock had subsided and then he laughed brightly. Wondrously happy. It was such a small thing. But a small thing that had looked impossible not too long ago.

“That's a very generous thing to call it,” Maedhros grinned so wide that the edges of his bandages bunched from where they rested against his cheeks, “If you would be so kind and talk...About anything, really. I cannot find you otherwise.”

Fingon obliged him, “How long could you do that? Or is that your first try?” Fingon asked and watched Maedhros hone in on him like a wolf might on a sheep. Only...more bumbling in his approach.

Maedhros made another step and paused to catch his breath and his thoughts, every single muscle consciously moved, flexed, braced. But he did not fall. Stumble perhaps. Stumbling appeared to be the lot of it, really. But it was movement. That was enough to be counted as a rousing victory.

“No, I have been practising--” Maedhros said as he picked his way like a newborn fawn, “For the better part of a year now, I would say. But you would have to ask one of the nurses, I have no concept of time.”

“And when did you plan on telling me that?”

Maedhros' notched ears swivelled about, his head slightly raised as he listened for Fingon, “Oh, Fingon I had it all planned out already, I had time to, you know,” Maedhros said and stretched his hand out to steady himself against a chair when he bumped against it like a drunkard.

“Have to fill your time with something, I suppose,” Fingon said gently, but loud enough so Maedhros could adjust his course. Not even ten steps, but they seemed to never end. Fingon leaned forward just a little, just enough so he could hopefully hurry should Maedhros fall.

“I would wander across the lake shore and stand before your house...Do you have your own? Or do you life with your family? I would stand before your door, let us go with that, and then I would act as if all was perfectly normal and I would grin and act as if nothing was out of the ordinary and-- Well, we would have seen what happened after. Except we won't. Please tell me I am nearly done, I feel my legs giving out.”

Fingon made a single step forward and Maedhros nearly crashed into his arms, “All done,” Fingon exclaimed, perhaps a tad louder than he had meant. His own heart hammered in his chest, in time with Maedhros' who was now at his absolute limit.

Maedhros heaved like one who had run all day. His hands clutched to Fingon's tunic and the short strands of his hair, soaked with sweat, pressed against Fingon's cheek.

“Ai, what an adventure,” Maedhros huffed just as he began shaking all over, from exertion and the sudden cold. “But I do not think I can make it back on my own.”

Luckily, he did not need to, for Fingon was there to support him. Though smaller by a head, Fingon could haul Maedhros on his own, one long arm slung over his shoulder, his own looped around Maedhros' hip.

“Very impressive,” Fingon said when they had made it back to the bed.

“I must look like a brain damaged bear,” Maedhros replied. He fumbled with the bandages around his eyes, fussing hesitatingly, as if he was not quite sure where to touch but waved off Fingon's offer of getting someone.

Fingon gnawed at his lip for a moment and then climbed next to Maedhros onto the mattress. There was no thinking involved. Only doing. He did not allow himself to hesitate.

They stayed like that for a moment, awkwardly squished against one another. Fingon cleared his throat to dismiss the awkwardness, “I don't know, I do not like that comparison. How about a drunken deer? Elegant, in a staggering sort of way.”

“Very well, it was you who had to see that, only fair that you compare it,” Maedhros conceded and stretched himself until they both half-sat on the bed and stretched out his left arm to allow Fingon to come closer. The bed was quite narrow.

“Tell me if your arm falls asleep,” Fingon said as he tried to make himself comfortable in the crook of Maedhros' bony arm.

Maedhros grinned, Fingon could see him smile up to the ceiling, “Do not worry about that, your head was always at least partially filled with clouds, so you're not _that_ heavy.”

Fingon snorted but smiled when Maedhros snickered. “Was I the first to be graced with your elegant gait? Aside from your healers, I mean.”

“Mm, in a way. It was the first time I managed to get this far on my own. So I made quite the show for you, you better appreciate it. No one has seen my _elegant_ gait yet.”

“Not even your brothers?” Fingon asked and wished to take the words back not even a heartbeat later. His ears quivered as he listened to any sign of having upset Maedhros.

Maedhros stayed silent for a long moment. Nothing but the ever-present crackle of the fireplace working tirelessly. “They are busy and I do not blame them for that.”

Fingon did not press further and instead tried to not cut off circulation to Maedhros' arm. “I am sorry that I ruined your plans,” Fingon said in an attempt to change the subject.

“Do not worry about it,” Maedhros said. “This way was also nice.”

He smelled of salves and of stale smoke. Fingon turned his head so he faced Maedhros and inched closer. He was warm.

“But you were surprised, right?” Maedhros asked and nudged him a little.

“Very,” Fingon admitted,” I am glad, too. To see you move around. Not long, I bet, and you will be wandering about.”

“Ah yes, that will be quite nice. I will need a cane to manoeuvre, though. I think I bruised something when I ran into that chair...” he rubbed over the plain fabric of his trousers, just below his hip as if to massage the subtly pulsating sensation of pain away.

“You should have said that earlier, I will get you something.” Fingon made to get up, one hand braced hard and shaking against the wooden headboard.

"It's fine, Fingon, don't fuss so much,” Maedhros said and tried to pull Fingon back down. “It would not be the first time; You would not _believe_ what parts you can bruise by standing...Well, falling down, rather...”

“You act as if I did not regularly fall off of trees,” Fingon said. There was quite a few instances of that happening, so he had plenty memories to choose from. And though it had not been funny at the time, something that, when remembering days long past applied to quite a few scenarios, Fingon now looked back on them fondly, he found.

Maedhros twitched his ears and angled them back sharply, though Fingon did not see. But he felt Maedhros give a soft, confused hum. “...Yes,” Maedhros said finally and sounded hesitant. Unsure.

“Everything alright?” Fingon asked but Maedhros ignored him. “Maedhros?”

Maedhros hummed, “Everything alright,” he said and smiled. He looked quite exhausted.

* * *

“I feel like giving it another try,” Maedhros said after a while and moved around, though Fingon was in his way. Climbing over him was still an impossible barrier.

“Again? Should you not rest?” Fingon asked. There was an elbow dangerously close to his face for a moment and he manoeuvred out of the way to not catch it to the nose. But then Maedhros' upper body loomed over his face and he looked up at the emaciated frame hovering there, trembling slightly from the exertion.

Maedhros snorted and angled his bandaged face towards the general direction of Fingon's voice until he faced straight down. He grinned, smirked a smug smile. It looked quite good on him, Fingon liked seeing it. “Bah,” Maedhros said and still grinned.

“What kind of answer is _that_ now?” Fingon asked and laughed.

“Don't want to, come move. I cannot climb your gargantuan frame.”

Fingon snorted but rolled away so Maedhros could sit up and prepare to heave himself up into a standing position. “You should rest, you are too over-eager.”

“I have been idling for years, I am most certain I am about to go insane if I must endure this much longer.”

“Oh if that's what bothers you, I am sure I can find something to do for you,” Fingon said.

“That would surprise me,” Maedhros replied without a hint of sarcasm. “Here we are,” he said and Fingon was treated to the sight of Maedhros positioning his legs and heaving himself up until he once more stood. “I am getting quite good at this, if I do say so myself. Soon and you would not even be able to tell that I move like an infant.”

“Graceful like a falling tree,” Fingon remarked easily and leaned back, arms folded behind his head as he watched Maedhros totter about.

“_Exactly_!”

* * *

Maedhros' ambition was greater by far then his abilities. He leaned heavily against the table, both hands braced firmly against the rough wood as he murmured a soft breath.

“I think I should get someone,” Fingon said, for the sounds of Maedhros' breathing concerned him.

“Nonsense, I feel wonderful. Just need to—lie down for a while...” He made the two steps back himself but needed help to climb back into bed.

“Everything alright?”

“I am fine, Fingon. You mother hen.” He asked for water and when he had drained his cup he nestled back into the pillows.

Fingon found himself curled back against his side. It was comfortable with its familiarity.

“What would my poor overworked brothers say if they knew how you dote on me for _walking_?” Maedhros smiled and fussed with his bandages, never edging too close over his cheeks.

Fingon could not remember having seen Maedhros' numerous siblings save for the very beginning. When Maedhros snorted, he found that he had said it aloud. “Are they busy?” With so many brothers, it seemed as if one at least could make a little time. He could not imagine what it would be like if he never saw his own family.

“Oh yes,” Maedhros said. “They are quite busy planning. Busy busy busy with claiming lands and fiefdoms and realms to lord over. They are not content with this lake. Not that that surprises me, we have been sitting too close to one another. Like trees with tangled roots, unable to...stretch. They feel a little crowded, I suppose. And so they have maps and ink and long discussions who gets what.”

“And you don't?”

“No, I have been busy standing and falling down.”

“I would have expected you eager for your own realm to lord over,” Fingon admitted, “That felt like something you would be good at. A natural.”

Maedhros laughed heartily at that. “Because I always ordered around my brothers? Well, I suppose it served as practice. A lot of good the crown did me, for all the two heartbeats I held it. But no. No, I am not interested with land to claim. I shall go with one of my brothers and annoy them endlessly with my new needs and my limitations.”

“Do not say that,” Fingon murred. Somehow it bothered him when Maedhros depreciated himself like this. Such unnecessary correctitude.

“Apologies,” Maedhros conceded and moved his arm a little. He had done so for a while now, twitching and shifting around. His arm was asleep, no doubt and he was too polite to say.

“Will you take it back? The crown, I mean,” Fingon asked as he rose to give Maedhros' arm a rest. Even though he already had an idea of what the answer would be, he also did not wish to lapse into awkward silence.

The hoarse laughter, open-mouthed and interrupted by wheezing lurches for air was, amazingly, not much better.

“_Fingon_!” Maedhros panted when he could speak again without suffocating, “Warn me next time.”

“Never knew you had such a fable for dramatics,” Fingon said and felt a hot blush burning on his cheeks all the way up to his ears.

“Ah, well, living with half-measures feels so terribly unsatisfying, now that I know how easy it is to lose it altogether.”

“But no,” Maedhros finally said, “The crown would be ill-fitting with me, a broken king has no place in times of strife and what good is a king when he is only useful during peace?”

Fingon sighed, a bland little noise that was neither melodic nor agreeing. Yes, the thought of Maedhros so cheerfully hating himself, that felt terrible.

Maedhros nudged him, “Come now,” he said and sounded composed and serene. As if he was calming a child. Calm and placid. “We need to be realistic. I cannot lead when I cannot even see the way myself.”

“It is your decision...” Fingon said and felt his chest strangely tight.

Maedhros smiled but there was no grief behind it, “It is, I am afraid.”


	10. No Good Tree Bears Bad Fruit

How did one go about making a walking cane?

Well, one needed wood, of course, that part seemed obvious. He was not certain what manner of wood one used for that purpose, though. He had heard about the grain of wood, different hardness and was utterly lost.

Also, Fingon had never felled a tree and he was not about to start trying it out. Too many things simply begged to go wrong and the last thing he wanted was to be hit by the same such tree he had cut down.

So he asked for help. Galadriel answered his plea. Together they ventured out to retrieve a tree.

“Can you even carve?” Galadriel asked as they made to find a suitable tree. She had an axe slung over her shoulder and now, more than usual, it seemed like a truly bad time to make her upset.

Fingon, dragging a cart and carrying a saw, shrugged, “I used to, not as well as Argon but...I mean, I still have all my fingers, that counts for something.”

“Small miracles. Also we will look for oak. Easier than walnut. I suppose you'd need hardwood for your project?”

“I'll just say yes and trust your judgment,” Fingon smiled as he pulled the cart along. The saw wobbled around and he steadied it, mindful as to not grab a handful of teeth...They were called teeth on a saw, right?

Galadriel watched him and whatever it was that she saw, Fingon was not privy to. Then, she shrugged. “Oak it is then.”

* * *

Fingon watched her rap her knuckles against the oak they had chosen. Or rather, Galadriel had chosen, Fingon was only here to witness and peruse his cousin's talent with the axe.

Fingon considered the tree before him, “Seems a waste; A whole tree for a cane...”

“There is nothing I can do about that,” Galadriel shrugged. “Well, I suppose you could make more things, might keep you occupied.”

Fingon shrugged and made to reply when the first solid thwack of Galadriel's axe connecting with the solid wood of the ancient tree. How she knew where to strike, Fingon had no idea.

“That takes me back,” Galadriel said, talking easily between her work. “Come to think of it, I miss my boat. The singular best boat I've ever build.”

The tree groaned above them and Fingon felt the urge to step away. But his cousin seemed perfectly content to stand under a tree about to fall and so Fingon remained.

Fingon had nothing to offer in the way of comfort, for he too missed. They all did. Perhaps not a boat, but there had been pets and friends and homes left behind. And they would never get them back.

Galadriel called and Fingon, startled from his thoughts, snorted when he was pulled away. Like a falling giant, the tree fell with a splintering groan.

“There we are,” she said when silence had returned and walked towards the fallen oak, her axe once more shouldered.

Fingon looked at the branches snapped on impact, splayed and jutting into every direction. Was there use for those? Well, most likely firewood. “And now?” He nudged the log as if to see if something would happen beyond that.

Galadriel nodded towards the saw, “Now we work.”

* * *

Someone had gathered a handful of tools for Fingon when he returned. Word, it seemed, had spread quickly. Very well, as long as no one would go blabbing to Maedhros, it did not matter.

With a hunk of oak the size of something Galadriel had called sensible plunked down in his room, bandages and other things for cuts gathered and his work done, Fingon made to carve.

It would not be too much a loss if he ruined the one he had, the remaining wood of the oak they had gutted would still be there, so he had spares. And time. That too.

The only thing lacking was skill. Oh, sure, he had had widdled away little sticks with a knife to pass time now and again. But he had never carved anything.

What exactly did one need for a cane? Well, it needed to be straight, most likely. That sounded easy in theory but Fingon was not quite certain he could manage _that_ on the first try. Should he make a practice piece first? On a smaller scale? Or would that be useless once he scaled up again?

With such thoughts swirling about the confines of his head, Fingon worked and found it good to be busy again. The feeling of wood being worked on under his hands, the metal scraping over a rough, malleable surface, that felt strange. He did not know how to have his hands do as his mind envisioned.

He had never appreciated the work his cousins had put into their boats. Oh, he had been on board of each of them, had listened to his cousins talk about the work that had gotten into it. But he had been happy for their happiness, not so much the work that had gone into it. He had not been able to relate back then.

Maybe he should ask Finrod about his boat. Finrod had sailed with Fingon and Maedhros on it from time to time, looking like the proud captain of his vessel.

Fingon sighed, blew out a bland exhale that ruffled the strands of hair that had draped over his forehead. He was not frustrated, not really. Frustration was one of the things that would get Fingon to abandon his efforts and so he could not allow himself to become frustrated.

But he could step outside and clear his head, returning with a fresh perspective and perhaps a little less dust in his nose.

He stepped over the sheet he had spread out under him to catch the wood shavings and left his tools as they lay, not bothering to neaten his workspace. The points of contact on his fingers felt sore from pressing down so long.

* * *

There was such a commotion in the kitchen that the ruckus reached Fingon the moment he opened his door.

Something clanged as it hit the floor, metal on stone. Someone yelped and Fingon was almost certain that it had been Turgon. Yet, when he stepped into the kitchen, only Finrod and aunt Lalwen remained in the room.

There was the sound of a door closing, so perhaps they had simply been thrown out.

“Oh, hello,” Finrod greeted, sitting well away from the fire and Lalwen, who had firmly overtaken the kitchen. A pot of tea and cups, some used and discarded and some untouched, waiting for someone to come along to have a drink, waited on the table. “Tea?”

“Please,” Fingon said, shuffled onto the bench stuffed into the corner and looked at the fire where a pot had been hung over it. “Who has been cooking?” One needed to be careful about what culinary creations one ate when living with his siblings.

Finrod nodded towards their aunt busying herself with whatever it was that bubbled in the pot in front of her, “Aunt Lalwen, which is why I am willing to try it.”

“Mhm...” Fingon agreed and sipped from his cup. He felt the smoothness of burnt glaze against his lips and the tips of his fingers, warmed by the tea. Though not as carefully decorated until every cup was a little piece of art, it was no longer simply a lump of clay shaped hastily into a cup.

It was an improvement that made them feel a little more civilised. Also, the tea did not taste of clay any longer and that was most certainly nice. His fingers tapped against the hard smoothness, absent-mindedly.

“Show me your fingers,” Finrod said and held out his own hands.

Fingon inclined his head but Finrod offered no further explanation, safe shaking his open palms insistingly. His tea was set aside and he did as his cousin bid.

“I trust this is going somewhere? Or did you just want to hold hands?” Fingon asked and smirked.

“Hush you, you will have to find someone else for that,” Finrod laughed. “Look at you, with your artisan's hands.” He pressed into one of the reddened spots, sitting between the pad of Fingon's thump and the side of his index finger.

Fingon yelped and pulled away, glowering at his brazen cousin. “Does it please you to torment me?”

Finrod “Always. Let me get you something for that."

And with that Finrod vanished through the door just as Aredhel, arms full with firewood, entered.

“There you are!” she called and dumped the wood in the corner, not even bothering to stack it. The fact that she prowled around here in the kitchen would have worried Fingon under most circumstances. Back home there had been more than one grease fire in need of putting out before the entire kitchen would have caught fire. “Tired of wood?”

But aunt Lalwen was here and she, at least, knew how to behave in a kitchen more or less. She also did not tolerate any kind of sassy backtalk in her chosen domain and the consequences for all those opposing would be terrible.

This, too, helped prevent fires. Most of the time, at least.

“Where'd you leave Turgon? I could have sworn I heard him earlier.”

“Somewhere. Away. Who knows?” Aredhel said, smiled the innocent smile of a younger sister who had driven her brother insane and drained her remaining tea. “Well? How's the work coming along?”

“Slowly,” Fingon shrugged and refilled their cups. “But there is time, I suppose.”

“Would go faster if he was not quite so tall,” Aredhel shrugged. “Or you just make it shorter. I mean, he would have to... bend to the side a little--” she leaned to her left, arm stretched a little as if she was about to search for something on the floor, “--like that, I suppose. He could have his ear close to the ground. Think of it; What an advantage.” She grinned and shrugged when she returned upright.

“I think I will do it properly,” Fingon said. “Not that he would not appreciate the suggestions.”

“I'm sure,” Aredhel said.

“Might give him quite the crick in the neck,” Finrod said, returning with a jar and a strip of fabric. “Here we are,” he said and sat across from Fingon again, shimming himself between the bench and the table. “Hands please,” he requested.

“But they are only borrowed, don't you forget that before you go and roughen them up again,” Fingon groused and narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if daring his cousin to pinch them once more.

Finrod grinned that grin of his and cleaned Fingon's hands briefly before examining them, turning them this way and that, “If you are so harsh to them without proper care, they will blister. Might already, it happens though, don't worry.”  
He laughed, “Once you get callouses in the strategic places, that won't be a problem.” He opened the jar he had brought and slathered some manner of cold, greasy salve over the sore spots, ignoring Fingon's sounds of disgusted protest.

“There we are, you are _most_ welcome,” Finrod said lightly and flicked his pointer finger against Fingon's forehead as he rose again.

“Fingon, stop yelling,” Lalwen said after a while, brandishing a wooden ladle. “Instead go and get your father over, food's ready. Aredhel, set the table.”

There was no backtalk with Lalwen and both siblings rose to do as she had ordered.

It was, in a sense, amazing that paperwork had followed the across the Helcaraxë. Of all the things that had. Fingolfin had himself buried in paperwork. Figuratively, of course, there was not so much paper yet to make that possible in any case, regardless.

The quill he used was plain, not even an especially pretty feather, all things considered. Back home, his father had had a golden tipped swan feather, a gift from uncle Finarfin. But now? It was a goose feather, the tip had been cut off and the entire quill would need replacement soon.

Just another reminder that things were not entirely like home.

Fingolfin was all too happy to take a break and when they returned the others had already gathered.

* * *

“I was thinking about your boat...” Fingon said while they cleaned the dishes, his arms up to the elbow in sudsy water. Finrod dried the plates and had ever so graciously offered to put them away.

There was usually no need for that, they had servants for that. But it seemed a wiser idea to split work so the thousand small tasks that made up a day would be done faster.

Finrod's ear twitched, “_Luime_? Why?”

“Galadriel talked about hers.”

“Ah yes. But you really cannot compare the two, you know? Hers was like a wild beast and I have no idea why she would and how she could control it.” He smiled, eyes gazing into somewhere far away, “Just you be glad that there were no large waterfalls easily reachable, because she would have been perfectly willing to sail off of it.”

“I liked your boat,” Fingon said and meant it. Many nice memories had been made on _Luime_. Maedhros had often joined them for their boating. Or Turgon, though Finrod had often taken him along for a little peace away from his siblings.

“I remember you got seasick while we were on the mooring,” Finrod reminded him, for he delighted in his cousin's flustered discomfort.

A snort, “I had never been on one before, you can hardly blame me for not being used to it.” Fingon held out the last plate for Finrod to dry.

“I am so very gad that you did not try to brave the others then.” Finrod smiled though suddenly there was just a little... sadness in his gaze. “I miss home. Mother too, she taught me how to build anything, really. You know, my first vessel was just a hollowed tree. She had it dragged into her dockyard, a little away so it would not get in the way and she would let us at it.”

He laughed again, “It was such a catastrophe; We struck a hole and the sides were uneven. So when we insisted on having it let down into the water, _convinced _that it would swim, we all gathered to watch it drown. After that, we made another.”

Fingon listened to the stories and the adventures Finrod told him then, of him and his boat. It sounded as if he was talking about a very dear friend.

He thought of Maedhros and the beginnings of the cane still in his room.


	11. Please Open His Eyes That He May See

When Fingon attempted to step through the door into Maedhros' abode, he momentarily forgot that the now finished walking cane was strapped to his back and promptly got stuck in the door frame.

He made a _very_ boorish sound as he stumbled back, something akin to _hurf _as he was thrown back, blushed scarlet and clambered inside before he could look around sheepishly. If he pretended like no one had seen him, perhaps the red-hot burn of his cheeks would not scathe quite as badly.

“Fingon? That you?” called Maedhros from further down the hallway.

Fingon scrambled inside, clearing his throat. “Yes, yes, it's me.” He pulled the cane from his back and ran his fingers over the polished wood. No dent. Well, not for a lack of trying, Fingon supposed and sighed gratefully. He would have said some very unbecoming things if his hard work got roughened up through his own stupidity.

“Could have sworn someone ran against the wall...” Maedhros smiled innocently when Fingon had announced his presence. He sat at the table in the-- well, to call it a dining room would have been generous. It was a very small room with a very slim table, but sufficient for perhaps four people to sit at, if no one minded to get their shins kicked accidentality from time to time.

He sat alone and so no shin kicking was currently taking place. A cup of tea, drained empty and forgotten across from him, no kettle anywhere in sight. It had not been his cup, unless he had gotten up to put it this far away only to sit back away again.

“Not the wall...” Fingon admitted but would not elaborate further.

“Ah,” Maedhros smiled, one arm supporting his chin. Then he nodded towards the wall but when he spoke, it appeared that he had meant to angle towards the cup. “I would offer you tea, but someone absconded with the teapot and I am not allowed to make a fire.”

Fingon took that as his sign, leaned the cane carefully against a free chair and made to stack wood and ignite a fire. “What would you like?”

“There is only chamomile and peppermint,” Maedhros said and sighed. “Surprise me.”

Fingon hummed in acknowledgement and grabbed the kettle to fetch water.

“Sunflower seed?” Maedhros asked and suddenly there was a bowl of toasted sunflower seeds thrust into Fingon's view, just shy of scraping past one of his ears.

“Are those the ones we traded you for?” Fingon asked when he had helped himself to an entire handful.

“Yes, I think they are. Maglor brought them with him earlier.”

“He stayed for tea?”

Maedhros laughed, “I am as surprised as you.”

Fingon knew not what to reply that would not have sounded at least a little bitter. So he kept his peace while he minded the kettle and chewed sunflower seeds.

* * *

Tea was served, much to Maedhros' horror. It had appeared as if someone, even if not gifted in cooking, would at leats be able to make tea. Maedhros had been wrong before and now paid for assuming, as he should.

He did not spit it out, but Maedhros was visibly appalled as his ears flapped once, twisted around agitated as he curled his brow, laid it into the same mien a very exasperated teacher might have. “When I said to surprise me, I did not mean that...” he said when he sat his cup back down.

Fingon grinned into his own tea, tasting both peppermint and chamomile. “I have no idea what your problem is,” he said, grinned and smacked his lips. No sugar. But they had honey and that was at least something.

Had they brought any beekeepers with them? If not, then at least the knowledge about it? Books? Loose texts? Or did the Noldor on this side of the ocean have to relearn the art of honey gathering anew?

“I begin regretting having asked you for help...” Maedhros groused but there was no true anger behind it. Instead he snorted, turned his ears around and drank again from the tea he had just moments ago declared terrible.

* * *

After a while, the sunflower seeds had been decimated, Fingon stood up casually, ever so casually, and sauntered over to the chair where the cane leaned.

“Fingon?” Maedhros asked, he had been given no warning and slopped a bit of his tea as he startled a little.

Fingon hummed when he came to stand before him. “Stretch out your hands.” And since he was quite well-behaved --when he wished to be-- he added, “Please?”

Maedhros did as he was bidden and when Fingon placed the wooden cane on his opened palms, they sagged for a moment before he steadied again. “What--?” He gathered the cane in until it rested on his lap and let one of his hand wander over the polished wood. “Did you make this?”

Fingon nodded, hummed in agreement and then leaned a little closer, “Well? How is it? Does the handle feel balanced? You would not _believe_ how long it took to get that thing into a _semblance_ of something one can actually grab.”

It was not a pretty thing. Not quite even, not quite straight. No clever, intricate carvings nor a hidden blade. Fingon had barely managed to get the thing nearly the same width, more or less, he would not even dream about additions to it.

Instead it was a long stick, Maedhros was quite tall, and a knobby handle on top. Nothing outstandingly beautiful; Fingon was certain, had uncle Feanor still been here to have laid eyes on it, there would have been a long dressing down for Fingon's lack of talent and creativity. His uncle had liked to do that, though there had never been true cruelty dished out, Maedhros would not have allowed it.

None of Feanor's myriad of half-nieces and nephews had ever been treated poorly by him. But also not as kind as his sons liked to think of him, perhaps.

But _Fingon _was quite satisfied with his work. It was the third try, too. The failed prototypes, one carved so thin in the middle that it had simply snapped and the other too short, had been used as fire wood.

Turgon had begged to put a little decoration on it, some embellishment, anything to make it look just a bit more refined.

But Fingon had persisted, it was his work and his work alone, no matter how unsightly. And really, it was not as if _looks_ really mattered to Maedhros, right? Only the feel of it and _that_ Fingon had made certain to care about diligently.

“Aye,” Maedhros laughed and held the gnarled excuse for a walking cane like one trying out a sword. But then he set it down and held it now properly, wobbling a moment as he rose and stood. “It serves well enough.” Anything more in the way of praise and Fingon would have seriously considered if Maedhros wished to make him look like an idiot.

For a third try, this would not have deserved the manner of praise a well-made piece had. There was sparing ones feelings and then there was blatant lying and Fingon barely tolerated being coddled around.

But Maedhros was nothing if not perfectly uncaring about the fact that it looked like a mess and instead grinned. He sat the cane down, held onto the gently curved handle and leaned onto it. “It makes standing easier, at least.”

That was both heartening and sad to hear, to know that Maedhros needed another point of balance to stand straight.

“Shall we?” asked Maedhros suddenly, head turned towards the door, where it stood open.

Fingon turned around, “What? To where?”

“Why, taking a walk, of course.” And then there was the clatter of feet and a wooden peg against the floor. Maedhros laughed even as his shoulder caught on the door frame and he was nearly driven off-kilter. But he did not stop.

Fingon watched him, bemused and more than a little surprised by the flurry of motion now commencing. His mouth moved once, as if to quip something clever back. But he remained alone, Maedhros was already down the hall, if the enthusiastic bumping and clattering was anything to go by.

And then Fingon laughed as he chased behind Maedhros.

It was not fast, no matter from which angle one looked at it. But it was lively and it was motivated and that was the very best thing they could ever hope for.

The spirit was what counted. And that was certainly in abundance with him and Fingon laughed again as he pulled the front door closed behind them.

* * *

“Maedhros, slow down, not so fast,” Fingon called for at least the third time and was pointedly ignored.

“Take it easy,” Fingon insisted, hissed through his teeth when Maedhros narrowly missed a drinking through for the horses and continued, “Don't run, you will fall.” Was that how his mother had felt when they had been small and acted as if they could not hear.

“Can't hear you,” Maedhros called over his shoulder as if he had read Fingon's thoughts. He had not said if he could do so and certainly Fingon would not have attempted it without warning... Who knew what darkness could spill from Maedhros' thoughts if he had no time to focus on what he wished to share.

Not to mention, perhaps he did not even wish for it.

Just in case he did and Fingon had simply not noticed, Fingon made certain to think quite unbecoming thoughts to convey his dissatisfaction.

Maedhros laughed, just for the sake of it or because he had received the flurry of curses Fingon would never speak aloud, who knew?

His three legged gait looked awkward, the way he had to lean onto the wooden cane to keep his pace. But he was so exultingly happy and Fingon, though worried, could not bring himself to truly consider forcing Maedhros to slow.

Instead he picked up his pace, it was still possible, though still gifted with long, long legs and a very generous stride, he was still not entirely recovered. But surely that would come again, Fingon could certainly see that.

But for now Fingon could keep pace, that was important. Also, and Fingon could not wholly deny the fact, it was rather nice to not be left behind in the dust while Maedhros streaked away, legs so long that he could have vaulted walls and fences like a horse.

They made for quite the spectacle; Maedhros could not see it, of course, but even he seemed to sense that others would stop and stare at one of their princes wobbling about with the vigour of a spring lamb.

Fingon feared that he would catch onto something, falling and injuring himself badly for he was still, despite everything rather frail.

“Maedhros!” he called.

And then Maedhros did slow, came to a stop entirely until Fingon caught up and stood next to him.

“It holds up quite well I would say,” Maedhros said in the same casual calm that Fingon had used when he had served their tea. Then he turned around a little, his ears moved unceasingly. “Say, where are we?” he smiled while he spoke but the certainty was not there and it was as if something was pulling at the corners of Maedhros' lips.

The noises must have been unfamiliar, Fingon thought as he watched Maedhros' uneasiness even as he refused to acknowledge his discomfort.

Had Maedhros been out here even once? Not under the trees, but here?

“It is not far from your garden from here, if you want to.”

“I would,” Maedhros nodded. Then he stretched out an arm for Fingon to wrap his own around, “Lead the way, if you would be so kind?”

Fingon obliged him without hesitation.

* * *

“Enough,” Maedhros said when they had made most of the way. But suddenly his skin turned quite palid, even more so then it was already and he staggered once, twice and sagged a little into himself.

Fingon helped him sit and listened attentively to the groaning gasps and murmured heaving before Maedhros truly settled and did not look as if his heart would blow out suddenly.

“Someone said it could be possible for me to find my way around a little easier, if I use the cane,” Maedhros said after his breath had evened and they sat together on a fallen tree. He still heaved a little, the exercise had left him faint and dizzy but he smiled still and would hear nothing about Fingon trying to fuss over him.

“How come?”

“I am supposed to--” Maedhros took the cane and held it out a little, “Search for obstacles, I believe,” he shrugged. “We are still trying to figure it out and with “We” I mean my never-tiring nurses and their endless efforts while I sit there and wonder what's for supper.” A shrewd little grin, “Who knows?”

Who would know indeed. Maedhros was an oddity amongst his people, for many reasons already. There had never been blind elves before, at least no documented cases. And so every step in Maedhros' recovery was just as uncertain and stumbling for his healers and physicians as they were for him. Fitting, in a way. Perhaps one could have even considered it somewhat funny if the entire situation had not been so tragic. Fingon certainly did not feel like joking.

“It cannot look much more silly than me flapping my arms in front of me, hoping to not hit my face or stub my toe, can it?” Maedhros asked and made to demonstrate when he hit Fingon's face. “I'm sorry!”

“Or hit someone else's face,” Fingon said and rubbed the spot on his forehead where the back of Maehdros' hand had connected with a meaty _thwack_.

“Where did I hit?” Maedhros asked and seemed uncertain what to do. Simply outstretching his hands seemed only to invite another slap.

“I'm just glad you did not use the cane for it,” Fingon said and when he saw Maedhros with his ears angled downwards in utter shame, he grabbed for his hands instead. “I'm fine, Maedhros. I had worse.”

Now it was Maedhros' turn to flinch in surprise and before Fingon could ask what had him startled so, Maedhros turned Fingon's hands around. Maedhros was far gentler with Fingon's hands than Finrod or Aredhel had been. Part of that was certainly from the fact that Maedhros did not have the same strength he once had possessed.

“So rough!” Maedhros exclaimed and laughed as he touched Fingon's palms. “What did you do? Feels like sandpaper.”

That was nothing, Fingon remembered the blisters and the sore spots, largely unaffected by Finrod's ointment, though Fingon did not wish to find out how it would have been without the greasy salve Finrod had tormented him with.

“Oh, you know,” Fingon said, sounding casual and smiled, “Hard work will do that,” he said and stretched his arms over his head, hands tented at the fingers and cracking the joints until Maedhros pursed his lips.

“Ah yes,” Maedhros said and his crinkled brow relaxed until his eyebrows nearly dipped beneath the bandages again. Then he laughed. “You are a proper craftsman now, are you not? And so clever, looking for ways on how you can save on abrasives.” He grinned and brushed his thumps over Fingon's palms.

“Could peel the bark off a tree...” Maedhros nodded to himself and grinned. Having no means of visually inspecting Fingon's hands, he took greater care to take in all of it through touch alone.

Maedhros' hands were soft. Bony, but without any sign of callous, neither scratched nor gnarled. Not healthy, Fingon could feel the slightly bumped, unevenly knitted bones underneath parchment skin, yes. But the sores were gone and the fingernails had regrown.

Fingon shrugged and perhaps Maedhros felt the motion through Fingon's hands as he held onto him. Maedhros smiled and swayed their hands around, like they had when they had been small. His cane was jammed under his arm, the largest part sticking out behind him. Then, he let go again and swivelled his ears around.

“Well, where to next?” Maedhros asked and turned towards Fingon, into his general direction at least, and looked slightly upwards. As if he wished to bring his ears a little closer to those who were smaller. Nearly everyone was, really.

Even before all of this, he had always accommodated, always hunching just a little, always cricking his neck downwards a tiny tad. Maedhros loomed easily, as did Galadriel, tall as they were. But were Galadriel had always used her height unabashed and to her benefit, Maedhros had made himself a little more approachable, a little...smaller.

Now there was no eye contact to be held any longer. Now he stood tall and instead listened a little closer. One did as one could, Fingon supposed.

“Perhaps we should head back,” Fingon tried carefully. “It is getting late.”

Maedhros' ears swivelled, “How late?”

The sudden surprise in his voice startled Fingon who told him.

“Ah, then we still have a little time. But you are right, we should go.” He stood, used his cane to stand and beckoned Fingon to follow.

“Do you still have something to do?” Fingon asked. They had been out here for a while, with guards who had trailed behind them but not even a single healer. Did his bandages bother him? Something else? Was it supper? Fingon had not seen Maedhros all that excited about the prospect of food in quite a while.

“Yes, I promised Maglor I would meet him this evening. All my brothers, actually. Not in my house, of course, they would get quite squished in there,” Maedhros laughed.

“Oh?” Fingon asked. He dearly hoped to sound inconspicuous for what friend would he have been for doubting the sincerity of the gesture.

Even more so when he heard Maedhros' hopeful joy, “We shall have supper together, no doubt they will try to make me feel as if they were not shuffling me about like some finicky piece of furniture. Well, I cannot blame them for it. But I do wonder which one of them commiserated himself to take me in.”

“Don't talk like that...” Fingon muttered, feeling strangely miserable. Was it the prospect of Maedhros going away? Once more separated by miles, even if this time it would not be ice? The thought hurt. But what right did Fingon have to demand him to stay?

None.

“Sorry, but you know, joking makes it a little easier,” Maedhros said. “And I am convinced that I have wept enough by now, don't you think? What good does moping and lamenting do?”

What good did it do, Fingon wondered but remained silent on the matter. Instead he smiled and was glad that Maedhros could not see him, for Fingon could not bring himself to make it look convincing.

“So? Any idea which one would do it?”

Maedhros shrugged, “It won't be Amras. I do not think he feels charitable towards any of us. I cannot blame him for it.”

When Fingon had heard of Amrod's demise, he had not quite been able to believe it. Somehow, perhaps helped by the fact that Fingon had not been present for it, it had been easier to realise that _Argon_, his _own_ brother, had perished.

But the bland, matter-of-fact way he had been told of his cousin's death, something about that had made it sound so unreal. “I suppose...” Fingon agreed.

“I have no idea who would,” Maedhros finally admitted. “But I do not care. I only wish to remain with my family, Fingon.”

_Am I not family?_

“You deserve it, Maedhros,” Fingon said and pretended to smile a little wider.

* * *

It was as if something was holding him back, some manner of dark trepidation that made his every step a little slower until it was Maedhros who pulled him along, by now so elated and motivated, he almost seemed to not even need the cane. It was nice to pretend that he did not, at least.

Even then, Fingon remained a little behind until they made it to the far greater home of Maglor which also doubled as a very austere throne room where Maglor could conduct his work.

But now Maglor stood before the door, a short flight of steps leading up to the house until it was the most elevated building on the Fëanorian side.

It had been a while since Fingon had seen him and so the contrast was absolutely startling. Were Maglor had been fidgety and uncertain, always bowed a little from the weight of his responsibilities and looking uncomfortable at best, that had now changed. As if someone had wiped all of it away.

Now there was only a bland sort of grimness, not even his ears twitched. It was terribly unsettling to see him so. Grey eyes dull and calculating.

Like a wolf watching sheep from between a thicket.

Fingon felt the echoes of an icy chill running down his neck when he saw his cousin.

Maedhros held no such hesitations and smiled when he found his brother's presence. “Here I am,” he said and smiled. “Shall we?” he asked and put a hand on Maglor's shoulder which Maglor squeezed back for a moment.

Maglor turned around after he had greeted Fingon with a fleeting glance, “We shall, the others are already inside. Come along.”

Maedhros nodded, but he did turn around for a final time and waved into Fingon's direction, “Goodbye, Fingon. Until then.”

Fingon had not been presented when his cousins had vaulted the ships and sailed off into an uncertain future. But here, standing at the foot of the stairs, he could imagine how it would have been. To see them go and be powerless to stop it.

“Goodbye...” Fingon said, sounding, and feeling hesitant, and knew not why his heart was so full of dread.


	12. He And All His Family

Six days ago, there had been movement in the Feanorian camp. Camp was not even really a good description any longer; Though it was still far away to resemble a city. Village, maybe? Fingon was uncertain. That was nothing new.

But village or not, the results had still been the same; They made ready to leave.

Perhaps his father knew where the sons of Fëanor wished to go to, for he had at least bothered and tried to establish open communication between them. They would not remain together, Fingon remembered Maedhros' musings about the matter.

“_They are not content with this lake,” _Maedhros had said and there had not been the slightest bit of doubt behind his words,_ “Not that that surprises me, we have been sitting too close to one another. Like trees with tangled roots, unable to...stretch. They feel a little crowded, I suppose. And so they have maps and ink and long discussions who gets what.”_

Where would they go? Fingon did not know because Maedhros had not known. And what else had Fingon cared about? Not much, all things considered. And it was not as if his cousins had been easy or eager to be tracked down if they set their mind to it.

And now they would leave and Maedhros too. With whom would Maedhros go?

Fingon would see them off, most likely, though it would rip his heart asunder, that he knew. But he could not allow Maedhros to wander away again without saying goodbye this time. He could hardly bear to think about it and with every day that passed the inevitable came ever closer.

He was tired. Tired in a way he had become quite familiar with while braving the Ice. But here he was not freezing nor starving and so he was uncertain what was wrong this time. But it was just as well; He could use an excuse to be alone.

Like some loiter-sack he lay on his mattress, there was no counterpane, lazed the day away and...thought. He had done a lot of thinking these past few days and none of them were good thoughts. They loomed above him like thunderclouds, heavy and foreboding.

There was not much else to do.

Well no, there was, there always was. But Fingon could not _bring _himself to get up and help feed the newborn calves.

He had not the talent nor the patience to plan where to plant oats and wheat or alfalfa. He did not want to bake bread.

He did not know what he wanted.

The windows had been hung with anything that would block out the light which must have looked strange from the outside. But he wished to be left alone and to pretend that the world outside did not exist outside was a comfort for a short while.

But of course he was not allowed to wallow in darkness. Because there were those that would not see him waste away, no matter how much he perhaps wished to.

Someone had, at first, been peeking through the keyhole; Fingon had noted that the little speck of light pouring in from somewhere behind him had vanished for a time.

Then the door had been pushed open just enough to look inside with one eye. And that was what they did, however many _they_ were.

And then the debating and the contemplations had begun.

“Is he sick?” asked Aredhel and he could hear Aegnor hum in thought but offer no further answer.

“Should I get someone?” Aegnor finally asked and the sound of someone rising and being pulled back down to their knees could be heard.

Thoughtful silence followed for a moment, Fingon could imaging them huddled and hunched in front of his room, exchanging glances, “Just moping, I suppose,” Turgon informed. “He does that—Did that all the time.”

“Mhm,” Aredhel agreed.

“How unkind to say, the both of you, have a little compassion,” Finrod admonished sharply, because of course he was also there. The door was pushed open a sliver more, so the ever new arriving eavesdroppers could all glimpse into his room. Shameless. Absolutely shameless.

“There you are,” came finally Angrod's voice, he brought with him the smell of fresh bread, and even though Fingon barely felt willing to adjust the too warm pillows, he rolled his eyes behind closed eyelids.

“What are you doing? Is everything alright,” Angrod asked the ones crouched outside Fingon's room. There was a surprised exhale as he too was pulled down, no doubt.

There were only so many that could conference before a nearly closed door and once more a bit more light was let in.

“I can hear you, you know?” Fingon said and for a moment, like startled parakeets, the noises outside silenced entirely for a moment.

Then they started back up. “How are you feeling, Fingon?” That had been Finrod and the fact that he sounded so earnestly worried ground on Fingon. It would have been easier if his cousin had simply made jokes.

“Will you come out anytime soon? We worry about you,” Galadriel said, still leaning on Aegnor as they all peeked through the half-opened door.

“I'm fine. I just need some time alone...” Fingon grunted. With what had these pillows been filled? Stones? Tree bark? It certainly felt like it. Absolutely atrocious.

Galadriel pushed her way inside, shoving aside cousins and siblings alike and ignored the complaints when someone got their hand stepped on.

She cleared the austere room, sat down at the edge of the bed and remained silent. Instead, she nudged one of the discarded carving tools, forgotten and half vanished under the bed.

Fingon turned when the silence continued, felt his hair tickling his neck and vowed to braid it later. It had felt ticklish against his neck all day but more than flip it away to relieve himself of the sensation for a while had not been prudent.

Both cousins looked at one another. Outside, the rest of the listeners remained silent.

“Yes?” he asked Galadriel who then flicked her ear.

“Nothing,” she said, sounding mildly surprised. “Feel free to be alone.”

“I can't really...With you here and--” he nodded towards the door.

“Oh, but even then,” Galadriel said and Fingon could not be certain if she smiled, “Your father's just down the hall. And Aunt Lalwen has been training outside.”

Fingon grunted, still turned towards the again. But his gaze found his cousin and did not leave.

“If you wish to be alone...I think you would have to run quite a bit farther than your room. Sorry,” she shrugged and this time Fingon did see her smile.

“Suppose so,” Fingon said. He smiled too. It had just crept up on him, without warning. That carefully maintained sulk had been blown away like dandelion fluff in a stiff breeze.

“I fear we cannot get rid of each other,” Galadriel mused as if talking to herself. But she looked back at Fingon. “I do not believe that it would be much different if we spread out a little more.”

“Well, I admit that Maedhros is an idiot but all of us are here, just on different sides of the same lake; What does that say about us?" She asked and clicked her tongue, “So why, if all of us are, as I would Maedhros be any different?”

“Hm?” That threw Fingon out of his thoughts. Like a horse that had cantered peacefully along and suddenly bucked.

“This time there is no ocean dividing us. So really, he can only run so far before he would need a boat...” she shrugged again and leaned back, now looking at the ceiling.

“You make me sound so obsessed,” Fingon said finally. Something about the fact that his own thought was mirrored, affirmed back to him...

Fingon had thought about that before, of course. There had been an awful lot of time to do so. But there was a decided difference between thinking of the most rational, logical answer and feeling as if everything was once more crashing down around him.

He had reasoned with himself for many hours, led the thought to its rational ending and fretted anew when doubt needled him. But now... He thought of Maedhros, of his brothers and their lack of boats. “But if you put it like that...”

When she put it like that, Fingon did feel like an idiot. Valar, where had this dread come from? It was as if he was back in the throes of adolescence.

He scoffed, at himself and his foolishness which had not been funny at the time. But now, looking back-- He snorted through a chuckle and rubbed his eyes.

What was he even doing in bed? Wasting away a perfectly fine day.

“So, may I please open the curtains? It smells stale in here,” Galadriel asked and Fingon himself jumped up and pulled them aside.

It was a beautiful day.

“Does that mean the mourning and the lamenting is finally over?” Aredhel asked from outside the room.

“For now,” Fingon laughed and pulled the door open.

And suddenly he was nearly drowned in an avalanche of elves, all piling around him. They all came into his room and since there was only one chair to sit upon, the bed had to suffice.

Fingon's poor bed croaked and groaned a wooden sound of complaint but did not give. Fingon was held in between his brother and sister and he could feel his cousins like a second ring around them.

It was chaos. The exact manner of chaos Fingon loved. Those he loved around him, close enough to touch.

“Knowing you,” Aredhel said after she had claimed her own spot in the room which was now filled far above normal capacity, “It is only fair if you give Maedhros a head start. You will catch him again soon enough, he can neither run fast nor far enough to escape you.”

“Aye,” agreed the other occupants of the room.

“Quiet, the lot of you.” Fingon called and laughed. Just like that. “All sworn against me,” he said, sounded not the least bit serious and grinned. It felt good. To laugh and to joke and Fingon could have kicked himself for trying to forget about his remaining family. There was still Maedhros, his dearest friend. But there was more than just Maedhros.

“Surely,” Turgon mused, “You can write letters. There must be _someone_ who can both decipher your awful chicken scratch and who will read to him.”

Angrod surfaced, chin resting on his arms, “Just make sure not to put anything incriminating in there. Keep it for the visits.”

“Yes, yes. Spoil all my fun,” Fingon replied while Finrod braided his hair.

“That's what we are here for,” Aredhel said.

Once more there came affirmatives from every corner.

And Fingon, despite the quiet, ever present nag of doubt, was happy.


	13. Maedhros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of torture

Maedhros did not know how much time had passed. He had windows, perhaps the curtains were even opened, but that did not help him. Arien herself could have pranced around his room and he would not have seen her light.

He heard knocks on his locked door, the front door, and the sensation of his mouth growing ever drier, that was the extent of ways to tell time.

Maedhros had locked himself inside his house, slamming close every door between himself and the world outside and here he would stay, alone. No one waited for him outside.

The world had turned dark and Maedhros had no means to find light within it.

He had no place out there, he did not fit in. He was weak and he was helpless. His own damned fault that he had not wanted to believe it until it had been too late.

_The mood is...strange. But Maedhros knows not what to do. He does not see their faces, does not know what they think. They do not tell him._

_But that is alright, for he is amongst his own. With his brothers. And that is all that is needed._

When had he noticed that this awkward silence around the table had been frigid and threatening? Too late. Far too late. Always too late. That was all he was good at, it seemed. To look back and despair at his perfect hindsight.

He should have known, really. Had he been so naïve? Excited for dinner with his family until his brothers had all turned on him like wolves on a sheep.

_It is Amras who rounds in on him. Amras, who has lost himself in the flames._

_They are _all_ furious. Not at him, not all. Not entirely. But he finds no safety amongst his brothers. The oath has destroyed what should have weathered everything._

_It's ever quiet whispering has not left Maedhros, but it is _quiet_. But his brothers, the oath has dug its heels into them, rides them._

_We do not need a cripple to slow us, they say. The words strike deep._

_They do not want him and that hurts greater than the pliers and the whips ever could._

_He will not burden; He shall be out of the way, Maedhros promises. He can be useful. He does not want to be left alone. What authority he might have used, as a big brother who knows best and means best, falters against Maglor with his crown. It is useless against Amras with his grief._

_The others, silent. Is it anger? Or do they not wish to go against their other brothers?_

_The oath does not bother with you, broken as you are, says one and Maedhros knows not who. His own heart beats too loudly and the voice is drowned._

_I shall follow, I can still hear it, he wished to say._

_He never gets so far._

_His own cane is wrenched out of his grip. It comes down, meets a brittle shoulder._

_He has been struck and before he can even voice the roiling terror at realizing this, he is struck again._

Blind._ Valar, he is blind. He cannot defend if he cannot see and the next blow has him on the floor and curled like a wounded fox with the hounds all around him._

Maedhros had wondered why this had seemed like such a revelation. He knew himself blind, he himself had felt the iron, hot and red, within himself.

But it had not been real. Such horror could not possibly be.

He, a large part of him at least, had felt this all to be a long, terrible nightmare. Certainly it had to be. He would brave it and wake, see the fires of their camp and feel perhaps the crown on his head. But he had not entirely doubted that any of this could not have been real.

Until Amras had struck him. As if a wall, the very last that had contained whatever Maedhros had hoped to hide behind it, had come down and cruel realness had poured in.

It had not been the first time, when he had lain there in Maglor's dining room, sobbing and whimpering to himself with only Maglor staying behind to offer something akin to comfort, that Maedhros had wished for death.

There had been times, quite a few times, were death had seemed like an absolute fantastic idea. But He had a way of chaining one's fleeting, fleeing _fëa_ down to a _hröa_ that was less vessel and more colander, steadily leaking life.

It had been a sensation of floating, of light and health and peace just close enough to _touch. _Of chains, corrupt and black and _wrong_ wrapped around his deepest core like corrupt spider webbing. It had been so wrong. So _wrong_.

Death had not been possible. Not for him. Trapped in a deathless existence, with salvation ever out of his reach. Insanity had evaded him, splintered mind hammered back into something resembling function by Him.

There had been no escape then.

_And there still isn't_.


	14. Why Does My Lord Weep?

They left in the night.

Was it shame? Or was it the utter unwillingness to confront their kin on the other side of the lake?

All light sources dampened, concealed like thieves they stole away.

The watchers still spotted them, but by the time Fingolfin and the rest of his family had been roused, notified and able to send out orders, the entire procession had set out and it would have been nearly impossible to stop them. With the sons of Fëanor riding at the front like a spearhead ever relentlessly pushing forward into uncertainty, only violence would have halted their march.

Perhaps not even then. Events had shown that bloodshed and violence only spurned them on.

Fingon had mounted the narrow flight of stairs so fast, he nearly fell over the wall in his haste to reach it. He had thrown on a cloak but the chill nipped through the sheer sleeping clothes he wore underneath.

“Fingon, at least put on shoes,” Turgon admonished when he reached his older brother and threw a pair of slippers at Fingon's feet.

Fingon was in no mood to argue, too wild his thoughts churned and rattled about to waste on words. Not to mention, the stone _was_ cold and wet and he slipped into them before turning back to the lake.

“When did you notice?” Turgon asked Laegion who had been on shift when first they noticed.

“Too late, I should say,” Laegion said, Fingon did not turn to see him shrug but it felt fitting for him to do so. What else could they do but shrug helplessly?

“They must have planned for it and slipped through at the first moment of darkness. See? Those there are the stragglers. Tail end. Valar know how far away the rest is now.”

“Have someone send out to see why they left, perhaps they feel amicably,” Turgon sighed and in it was the long gotten used to resignation of one who knew a futile attempt and still tried again. “There are still things in need of clarification and _his Majesty_ saw it as inconsequential to notify us of their plans for departure.”

“At once,” Laegion said and left.

Turgon groused, a sound ill-fitting for him and yet ever more frequently used before he sidled closer to his brother, “Fingon?”

“I'm fine,” Fingon said evenly and found that he meant it. There was familiar sadness thumping dully in his stomach, but he stuffed it down into the icy recess where he had forced all unproductive feelings and pushed on. “We will figure out where they are going-- Didn't Celegorm write with Aredhel? Did she say anything?”

Turgon hummed. If he shrugged, Fingon could not see. “Not that I know of. Perhaps? I shall ask. Come with me?” A hand touched Fingon's shoulder.

Fingon laid his hand over his brother's, “In a moment. I will catch up.”

Turgon touched Fingon's shoulder and left.

Fingon could see the last droves vanish ever gradually out of sight. From the Sons of Fëanor, there had been no sight of anywhere, too far away. “You could have at least warned me...” Fingon murmured towards the direction he guessed them to be.

The wind sweeping along the guard post like a cat offered no answer.

Fingon turned to return home and dress properly.

* * *

They gathered in what someone far more generous might have called a courtyard. Aredhel had and still did not look pleased and Fingon doubted it had all that much to do with the fact that she too had been woken so roughly. Fingon arrived just at the tail end of Aredhel's frustrated ranting and caught only the last threatening promise.

“He better be glad it is not me who follows behind to understand their madness, because if I see his stupid face one more time, I am going to rearrange it.”

“I take it he did not tell you then?” Galadriel asked. Her brothers stood behind her like an entourage, though Aegnor's hair was still braided and done up to keep it neat while he slept and Finrod rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand.

“_Impressively_ deduced,” Aredhel confirmed darkly and ran her hand roughly through her hair. “Cowards, all of them. You would think they could at least give us a warning. But no, they run off into the night, Valar only know what lurks there.”

“So,” Angrod said, “What next? Do we wait? Do we take over what they left? They have better fortifications than we do.”

“Not during the night,” Fingolfin said. He looked remarkably put together for someone who had found himself swarmed by the commotion the most. “We shall wait until dawn to see what, or who, is left. Not too eagerly; We shan't appear like scavengers nor conquerors.”

“Think any stayed?” Lalwen asked.

“Possibly. There were those on our side who left as well; The opposite might hold true.”

“Would not surprise me if they simply destroyed what they could not carry,” Aegnor said and shrugged.

Fingon sighed and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He was now far warmer, dressed decently, but the motion was comforting. His fingers lingered, gripped into the wool tightly. It felt good to have something tangible underneath his hands. Perhaps it was the way he had been roused from sleep, so suddenly and at such an hour, that made the line between dream and waking so...thin. So malleable. As if his dreams spilled through the cracks like water through a chipped glass.

He was quite out of ideas on what to do now. As if rooted in place he remained standing there and half-listened to his family talk.

His mind, along with his gaze, wandered over the lake.

* * *

Plans, however dubious and tentative they might have been, were made. Tomorrow, by the first light --not very long until then now, they had spent a good while discussing-- they would go and see what, or whom, might have remained. Perhaps the rest would begin to make sense after.

“I'm not tired,” Fingon said and it was not a lie. He was now too far removed from anything approaching sleep, from being roused too suddenly and with all that commotion...Well, he could not be blamed.

And so, when his father shooed siblings and cousins alike to bed and then followed behind Turgon who had a daughter to comfort, Fingon did not follow.

“Everything alright, Fingon?” Fingolfin asked when he sensed him absent from the nest, like an eagle might wish to protect its eaglets under wide wings.

Fingon smiled,“I will go now and see. You're right; It won't do any good to send over too many at once. And they know me, at least.” He had been over times enough to be a normal sight.

Fingolfin remained silent, merely looked thoughtfully at his oldest. “Very well. Be safe, take your guards.”

“I shall,” Fingon said.

* * *

The darkness swallowed everything where before fire and light had stood tall and defiant against it. The houses looked as if huddling together miserably. Even more so when he was finally admitted and saw the grim faces of sentinels hunkered under the circles of light still remaining.

How _empty_ everything was. Not entirely desolated, little flames from candles illuminated some of the houses. Amidst the dozens of empty ones, they looked, if anything, even more lonely. Desolate specks of light against uncaring seas of darkness.

Maglor's accommodations, for Fingon simply could not bring himself to call it anything more generous than that, loomed in the distance. It was also left dark for the most part, someone had bothered with a now smouldering torch at the door and a solitary candle in the highest window.

To what purpose? Remembrance for the ones who had left? Deception to those who had watched from the other side of the lake?

Fingon cared not to find out. He turned away, uninterested in Maglor's abandoned residence.

He passed Curufinwë's house, with its forge now dead and cold. When he looked through the window, he saw a bedroom, the bed neatly made and everything else that had not been nailed down picked clean. Nothing left that spoke of the elf that had lived there.

Was Celebrimbor's room the same? Stripped of everything but the bulky furniture? Fingon did not bother find out, instead he turned and left.

Of course it was Maedhros' home that called for him, even if his path was meandering and halting. He could not stay away, even if he was not all that eager to reach it. With Maedhros gone, what held him there, safe perhaps memories?

* * *

Guards were posted at the front door as well, which struck Fingon as odd and made him feel strangely uneasy. And even as Fingon walked towards the house, an elf scuttled from one of the alleys and caught up with him while calling out.

“Prince Fingon!” he called and Fingon hesitated for there did not rise a name to the surface at the sight of him. It did not help to see Maedhros' healer so hunched and harried.

“Titherîl,” he greeted and hoped dearly his answer had not sounded over much like an uncertain question. “Why are there guards at Maedhros' house?”

“You can't have known,” Titherîl said and held his pace with Fingon even as he squirrelled about. “We were thinking about sending someone but we did not know... We were ashamed, prince. We have failed you and him and I can offer my endless apologies--”

Fingon did not scream, for that was most uncouth. He did, however, bring his hand up to press it against the indeed endless flood of stammered half-explanations. “He's still in there, isn't he?”

“_Yes_!” the healer wailed and fell unto his knees. “He will not open his door! He will not eat nor does he speak to us! It has been going like this for days, sir. He ordered us away and since then we have not heard another word.”

“How long?” Fingon asked.

Titherîl looked up towards Fingon, eyes red from shed tears, “Ten days.”

“_Ten_ _days_?!” Fingon called and whatever sympathy there had been burned away like snow against an inferno. “Did you want him to die as wretched a death as possible?” Fingon called and for the first time in a long time there was fire in his chest instead of ice.

“We could not,” the healer said and shrank back from the sudden anger he now found himself against. “We did not dare to defy him.

“No one saw it fit to break his door down then?”

Titherîl shook his head miserably and turned away, ears pressed tightly to his head, perhaps to escape that baleful glare scorning him so. “I'm sorry...”

“You are _sorry,_” Fingon said and whirled away towards the door.

None of the guards stopped him. Neither his own nor the owns from this side. They better had not; They had never done so before and Fingon would not have slowed had they changed their mind now. Instead he shifted his weight with a fluidity that would have made his instructors proud and kicked the door down.

It had not been a sturdy lock and the door had not been solid oak like they had been back home. Had it been, Fingon would have shattered his leg. But this had not been Fëanor's proud handiwork and instead it had only made to serve its purpose with as little flourish as possible.

The door flew inwards in a shower of splinters and what greeted Fingon in return was the stench of putrid neglect and stale decay. He gagged and stumbled back and he could hear the guards behind him scramble to get help.

With an undeniable entrance now hewn free, it seemed they saw it fit to act. Fingon snorted in sluggish contempt and regretted it right away; He did not wish to think ill of those who had remained to look after Maedhros, no matter how generous that might have been.

Reek or no, he entered all the same and found most of the house just as he had left it last to chase after Maedhros in playful carelessness. Nothing was missing, the few pieces of furniture, bare-bones from the beginning, had remained untouched. So untouched, in fact, that faint motes of dust had already started to settle onto every surface.

But no sight of Maedhros anywhere and no answer when he called out for his friend. He glanced into the kitchen as he passed and saw a mouldy loaf of bread, untouched after some of it had been torn off days ago. The fire that had always burned when Fingon had visited and the kettle that had always waited with tea, cold and neglected.

Maedhros' bedroom was also closed and he did not take the time to find out if it was locked as well. Instead he charged from the half-crossed hallway and braced himself with his shoulder.

The door hinges yowled in complaint and gave way without the entire door splintering. Instead the entire thing _leaned_ forward, pitched over and fell into the room with a loud, wooden clatter. “Maedhros!”

On the Thangorodrim temperatures had been so freezing that Fingon had not smelled anything, neither hideous nor pleasant, and he had been spared the stench of misery and unwashed wounds in the infirmary, clean and neat and perfumed as it had been.

But what greeted him was a miasma so miserably foul, he wished to turn and gag everything he had eaten for dinner back up.

He blinked away the tears that threatened to spill, heralding the wave of nausea that would follow. In the gloom, he could see the destruction wrought.

Nothing remained intact. Absolutely nothing. The bookshelf, empty, had been pulled down and shattered from being maltreated so badly. The bed frame and the nightstand had been splintered, with the latter having been thrown against the wall. Cloth had been torn and metal bend, coal long cold had spilled from the fireplace.

And there, the worst part of all, in the middle of the room lay Maedhros in a heap, curled into ruined blankets. Turned away and still.

“Maedhros...?” Fingon asked and stepped into the room.

“Leave me be,” came the reply after far too long and the voice was only a husk. “You have done enough.”


	15. He Will Not Leave You Or Forsake You

Retreat and withdrawal of any kind for any reason had never come easy to Fingon. Perhaps he had always been; It was not as if he had had the chance to exhibit such traits on a scope greater than stubborn perseverance on his choice of dinner back then. What reason, how many opportunities for unyielding advance had there ever been in peaceful, gentle Aman?

The Ice, where retreat would have inevitably meant stumbling into a different part of frozen, hopeless wasteland and possibly perish alone while the remaining Host gritted ever onward...

The Helcaraxë had only hardened what had already been there, sleeping and biding its time, perhaps waiting for Fingon to be faced with deadly adversity.

And now, once woken, it was hard to keep this zeal nice and quiet. Fingon had shoved it, or thought that he had at least, into the same drab cell of his mind where all things that would get in the way went.

But now, when fire had sundered down the doors and weakened the walls of his carefully maintained composure...

To see the work of two years destroyed and torn apart, Maedhros as miserable as he had been when Fingon had retrieved him; Perhaps, in some sense even worse off now... It felt as if it had been all for nothing. As if secured footing had been ripped away beneath him.

Maedhros still lived, though perhaps _existing _was a more apt term for it.

They had dragged him out of the destroyed remains of his house, with Maedhros stubbornly refusing to answer any question or participating in their renewed efforts to reverse what damage his own neglect had wrought on nearly healed injuries. The bandages had come nearly undone, held together by the snarls in his greasy hair and whatever had dried and glued them in place.

To feel, just as he had feared before, as if Maedhros had closed him off once more...

Was this all to be for naught? All of this grief and sorrow and death?

Fingon had no answer to that as he stood outside Maglor's house where they had brought Maedhros. And he still had none when his family arrived on the first light of day, just as they had promised.

Too anxious to leave, too troubled to enter, he paced in front of the door and cared not for the berth his guards had given him. Fingon, already forced to acquiesce his cousin's health would not draw back for another reason. One stood to be trampled or got out of his way.

He was tired of flinching away, of being the one to _yield_ and to _give_ and to _**bend**_ until there was nothing left to give. How far could he twist before he truly broke? Before he could not recover any longer.

Surely, some part of him, growing ever fainter by the day, reasoned that the line was far away and there was plenty he could spare. Had not Maedhros lived through kinslaying and torture and lived?

The cold darkness stroking along just below Fingon's heart like a cat, the part he resented for its brutal honesty, told him different things.

Because Maedhros had not appeared much in the way of living. Alive, perhaps, but not much more than existing. The rest had been taken away. By the enemy. By family.

They had taken and taken and now what was left?

Whatever it was they had scooped from the tattered carpet and untangled from ratty blankets. Whoever remained.

Would the condemnations start again, Maedhros begging him to kill him, like he had at the lowest point Fingon had ever seen him in?

Only...Had it truly been? It seemed they found ever deeper holes to stumble into.

Such thoughts, circular and about as unproductive as anything could be in situations such as this, were interrupted when finally another one who had quite tired of setbacks and retreats held him in his endless pondering.

Fingolfin, his own guard flanking him until they reached the, for a lack of a better word, courtyard and suddenly Fingon found it quite impossible to pace.

“I just heard,” his father said and Fingon was pressed against him as if he was still a child. Fingon slumped for what felt like the first time in ages but could have been only a few hours. But what a terribly few hours they had been.

“I should have seen for him sooner,” Fingon murmured, there was no reason to let everyone hear. And it was true, was it not? So much needless pain avoided if only he had not felt sorry for himself. Had he indulged in his own pity a little less, perhaps Maedhros would still laugh and jest and make merry despite everything.

If only he had not wished Maedhros to stay...

_This _isn't_ what I wanted..._ But it was what he had gotten for his selfish wish.

Fingolfin made soothing noises and held his oldest son much like he had when Fingon had been small and scuffed his knee or banged his head, until he was called away. It seemed Maglor had left instructions.

The world did not stop for anyone, least of all for a fool like Fingon.

* * *

Now, with the Sons of Fëanor gone, his siblings and cousins had begun to explore the encampment without hesitation though there was no true excitement behind it. Had they been younger and the world more peaceful still, they would have had no end of fun rifling through whatever belongings there might have been left; All in good natured fun...For them. But such were the games they had played.

Alas, there was no such peace and they were older and jaded. Perhaps they searched for supplies or trinkets, keepsakes that would have reminded them of home.

All of them, however, looked quite aimless in their musing wanderings. He saw Galadriel toying with an empty birdhouse hanging from Caranthir's porch.

Save Aredhel who unerringly broke into Celegorm's quarters for reasons Fingon knew nothing of and was not certain he wished to find out. He would not have been surprised if she had set fire to the entire thing and indeed he appeared not to be alone in this notion for there had been buckets stacked near the well.

Nothing happened. Instead, when she stepped out once more, loose letters clutched to her chest and face pale, she shoved him away when he came closer and shook her head at his inquiries. “Not now, Fingon.” She went to hide away somewhere, for his sister had never liked to show her tears in public and there was only so much composure left.

Fingon could not fault her, he himself had only a little while ago –thought he had-- gotten over his own hang ups and let her go. He would tell Turgon, however. For his brother had always been exceptionally good at dealing with their sister. Once she, much like Fingon himself, was receptive to comfort he too would offer it. But in this moment there was blessed little he could do.

Having something to do felt good, Fingon supposed and went off to find his brother. Having his hands full made thinking in ever tighter circles difficult and at this point Fingon would have done anything to distract himself.

Turgon, after Fingon had asked his way to him, had been standing off to the side, leaning against Curufin's now cold smelting furnace.

“Any other heartbreak?” Fingon asked and smiled weakly when Turgon rolled his eyes. “Celegorm left something behind for Aredhel to find... It upset her quite badly, I think.”

“Please,” Turgon scoffed. “As if we should not have guessed that they would do something as bullheaded and cruel. Not just Celegorm. All of them,” Turgon said and snorted. There was barely any fire nor conviction behind it. “None of them are the cousins I once knew, though that is nothing new by now. I simply did not think they could stoop that much lower.”

Fingon did not speak, for he had nothing to reply to that.

“They are all so cruel...” Turgon finally muttered and kicked the ground before him. Cold ash flew up in a cloud and settled again. No one had bothered to clean it up. Sloppy. Nothing Curufin would have tolerated had he still cared about the forge.

“Maedhros too, then?” Fingon asked, hackles rising, and felt oddly defiant and defensive. But just as fast his choler deflated again when met with Turgon's unyielding stare.

Turgon turned, to look at Fingon and then to incline his head to the tallest house. “He is still here,” Turgon said, “Left behind just like the rest of us.”

Turgon dusted himself off, though there was no heat there was still soot in places and went to find Aredhel.

Fingon looked after him for a while before turning to the house in the distance.

* * *

The door opened just as Fingon rounded the corner and a few healers filed out. Titherîl saw Fingon approach and, with folded back ears, scuttled away, unable to meet his eyes.

No one held Fingon back from entering, while his own guards remained outside like always. It was not as if Maedhros could have done anything to attack him, even if he had wanted too. Fingon dearly hoped that he did not. The darkness wondered aloud if Fingon would not have deserved it.

He had not the heart to disagree.

Maedhros abode had had only a ground floor, no stairs nor cellar; There had been no need for it. But here, Fingon needed to pick his way around. Past a far greater dining hall where the kitchen had been held separate from the eating space. Up a flight of stairs and past a study where every scrap of paper had been cleaned out of, though a discarded quill and wax spots where a candle had melted showed that Maglor had worked here.

There was a washroom with a still damp wooden basin were a bath had just taken place a little while ago.

The bedroom, also far bigger than Maedhros', waited on the far end of the hallway. Cold sunlight, it was yet early morning, filtered through the window next to the door. It made the warm glow of the fireplace far more pronounced and the moment Fingon pushed the leaned on door open, he felt heat banish whatever cold he had brought with him.

He stomped his feet a little before entering and swallowed thickly. No words would come and instead he walked across the room.

Maedhros did not lie in bed, the blankets were undisturbed and the pillows still fluffed. Instead there had been a high backed chair dragged in front of the fire. Another chair stood close by, empty.

Fingon cleared his throat a little and sat. Maedhros did not turn to indicate that he had any interest in engaging in conversation. Instead he only continued his silence and held his face turned to the fire. The bandages had been renewed, white and clean and neatly bound. A far cry from the unravelled, stained mess they had been when Fingon had found him.

A quilt had been laid over his lap despite the, to Fingon, sweltering heat, and tucked down the sides of the chair. His hands rested limply on top of the fabric, unmoving.

Fingon looked and the hot rush of shame at the thought of staring, caught doing it or not, only added to the cloying heat. His cape came off and that was a little relief but did nothing against his pounding heart. The heat had nothing to do with that.

“I'm sorry...” Fingon said finally and both wished to pluck the stupid words back from the air while sighing at the sudden relief. There, he had said it. It was not enough, of course. Would never even begin to make up for all of this.

But it was a start.

Maedhros limply turned his head, still resting against the upholstery. Fingon held his breath.

“For what?” Maedhros asked sombrely. There was still gravel in his voice. But someone clearly had done something against that, for it was not as bad as Fingon remembered it.

Fingon shrugged, “Everything, I suppose.” For not having come sooner. For being complacent in his own woe when there had been nothing to squalor about.

Maedhros gave a single, joyless laugh, barely more than a flat “Heh.” He continued, “It was not you who insisted on locking himself away like a child." Which was untrue and Fingon winced. Maedhros shrugged, oblivious, “The only thing you can be blamed for is the fact that you don't know when to quit. It would save yourself some heartache.” His voice sounded choked and awfully tight. "And work, I suppose."

Fingon opened his mouth to retort, to say anything and found nothing.

Instead he slumped back and rested his far too hot head in his hands and sighed.

“Maglor has issued some orders, I believe. Have you read them yet?”

“No, what do they say?”

“I would not have the foggiest,” Maedhros shrugged. “I was left out of the planning and the meetings. No one has need for a cripple there.”

There was none of that previous cheer behind the harshness of his words. When Maedhros had belittled himself before, it had been...easier to stomach. Certainly Fingon had felt less awful hearing it. But this was not about himself.

“We shall find out then. Father has already been called to deal with them.”

“Mh. I apologize in advance for my brothers and whatever whims they scribbled in there...”

Fingon sighed again and stared into the flames. There was not much else to do. Together, they waited in silence.


	16. And Let Us Not Grow Weary Of Doing Good

Not a servant, but Finrod carefully opened the door and stuck his golden head through. The consideration was kind enough, but Maedhros flinched something awful when their cousin suddenly spoke. “We're waiting for you. Didn't want to start without everybody assembled. You feeling up for it?”

It was meant for Maedhros but Fingon answered for the both of them. “We'll be down in a moment.”

Finrod smiled brightly and left. The sounds of his footsteps, already quiet to begin with, faded and fell still entirely.

“You alright?” Fingon asked and looked at the way Maedhros' nails had dug into the armrest. Maedhros nodded once, resolute. Through great, conscious effort did the fingers loosen and his knuckles, white from pressure, returned their colour.

"Never better...” Maedhros said and Fingon did not comment on the shaking nor the quiet little gasps fought back under control.

The cane had splintered. Not broken; The wood had been formidable, strong, credit to Galadriel's expert choosing. But it was still destroyed beyond reparation and Maedhros gave a pained smile when Fingon told him so.

“I am sorry...” Maedhros said blandly. Fingon was unsure if Maedhros had become pale or if it was simply the light illuminating him unfavourably. He spoke but his voice sounded so terribly devoid of anything. “I should have remembered myself...”

“Oh, don't be silly. Didn't your father smash his things on the regular...?” Only then did he remember. “I'm sorry,” Fingon said, mortified.

There was awkward silence until Maedhros waved him off. “It's fine, Fingon. It's alright. Instead, help me up? I don't think I will manage my way down.” He scoffed blandly, "What a setback. My own fault."

Fingon remembered the way he had chased after a laughing Maedhros, the cane little more a formality than truly needed. Maedhros had laughed and ran and Fingon had barely been able to catch him. They had laughed that day... As free as they had in the gardens of their grandparents.

“Certainly,” Fingon said and gently pulled Maedhros to his feet before offering him an arm and his shoulder to lean against. He could feel Maedhros shivering, nearly imperceptibly to his credit, but Fingon had Turgon as a brother and Fingon had become sensible to his brother's various shaking and shivering when thrust into social situations.

One also learned not to comment and so Fingon did not. Instead they made their way down the stairs, with Maedhros clutching to Fingon and the railing like one drowning might grasp for the only piece of driftwood. Had Maedhros not neglected himself so, had there been a little more strength behind the grip, there might very well been bruising. As is stood, it was only very nearly so and instead simply rather painful.

“No going back now,” Maedhros murmured softly when Fingon announced their arrival before the door to the dining room.

There really was not, was there? Fingon pushed the door open and led Maedhros inside. His family had already gathered, standing, sitting, waiting, brooding.

There was room for six chairs on Maglor's table, though seven chairs had been pulled up. Fingon helped Maedhros into one, declined the offer of one for himself and instead stood next to Maedhros.

He looked up and met horrified stares from those assembled. Puzzled, he gazed down to Maedhros. Had the bandages come undone? No, just as they had been when they entered, clean, neat. Like the rest of him; Freshly bathed and combed. Scars, those visible at least, while red and angry, no signs of infection.

But the realisation came the moment he looked up to find out what had them all so upset. No one else had seen him yet. Only Fingon had braved the way over to the Fëanorians, only he had met with Maedhros. For all those assembled in the room, this was the first look of him since they had left Aman.

Well, all things considered, it could have been worse. They could have seen the raw, bloodied mess of him, like Fingon had, when he had found Maedhros. Or back in the infirmary. Compared to that, Maedhros now looked like a flower grown in the first light of spring.

They all stared to some degree, though some were more subtle about it. Aredhel tore her gaze away and leaned her face into her hands for a moment before sitting straight and utterly refusing to look at him again.

Fingolfin looked around the room, to the elves assembled and cut right to the quick. “There is no good way to begin this. We are all left trying to figure out what has happened and how it will affect things to come.” He brought fourth a roll of parchment, such things could not be written on plain paper, it appeared. He unrolled it and cleared his throat. “I shall read this as it is written, without commentary; That can come later.”

Turgon and Galadriel both leaned forward, ears swivelled to catch every word. Ready to pick apart every sentence for the hidden meanings, turning over every word, mulling over, considering the things unsaid.

And the missive was certainly not missing those, if the way Turgon flared his nose or Galadriel pursed her lips were anything to go by. Fingon, hopelessly floundering when it came to veiled insults and carefully phrased threads, listened, considered the words head on and hoped that someone would fill him in later.

He knew not if Maedhros was truly listening and was unsure if he should bother him later with it. Had he not already been through enough? But at the same time, he deserved to be informed.

They went through the lists and the endless points demanded. Land ownership, titles, the right to govern themselves under Maglor's crown. Tributes to be paid once the Host of Fingolfin and whatever elves had remained had established themselves. Fair enough.

The letter ended with this; “To ensure lasting peace and proof of Our goodwill,” Maglor had written and the brothers had co-signed, “_We entrust Prince Maedhros Fëanorion into the care of King Fingolfin and his Host, as an honoured guest, to serve as advisor in matters of the High Crown._”  
It struck Fingon as odd. After all, writing “_We do not want him, do whatever,”_ would have been that much more succinct. It would have saved on ink too. They had intended Maedhros to be little more than a hostage, dolled up so the word would not sound quite as insulting. A cripple, little more than insurance that the remaining Sons of Fëanor would attempt to play nice. Fingon did not need to be some manner of politician to discern this meaning.

Maedhros had not spoken for the entire duration and even now remained silent. They all were, for a moment. Stunned, or in Lalwen's case, visibly fuming.

Finally, she snorted, pushed herself off her chair and leaned against the wall, “Honoured guest my--”

“_Lalwen_!” Fingolfin called, aghast, “Compose yourself, please.”

Lalwen snorted and folded her arms, “A farce. Cowards, all of them. Too craven to stay and say it outright.”

“Yes, well. There is blessed little we can do about it now,” Fingolfin said. “They are sound enough to not denounce us or those who would not follow. The Noldor remain together, be it only by the barest of threads. But there is yet hope of reconciliation. We cannot squander it by being petty.”

The assembled agreed. And then Fingolfin turned to the one who had not spoken so far. “Maedhros, had it been written or not, it would not have changed my own ruling. We will have you here, as a family.”

Maedhros dropped his head and his hand weakly fumbled for his heart to press his fingers there, “If you will have me. I shall offer you no trouble.” He grinned weakly, lips wobbling before they fell again, “I would swear to it...But...ay...”

“I believe we all have quite enough of oaths and swears. No, I shall take your word for it and be satisfied.”

And to this, the rest also agreed.

“Until you have healed enough to serve as advisor, as your brothers want you to,” Fingolfin said, “If you allow it, to show our people that bygones are bygones and we hold no grudge against one another, then I would like to appoint you a trustee. One who shall live by you, safe with you and you safe with him. ”

“Me,” Fingon said and looked up. With a certainty he could never before remember having in anything pertaining to such rulings and decisions, he swallowed and felt his heart steady, “You are talking about me.”

“It is you who saved him,” Fingolfin said. “And it is him who inspired you to risk your life,” he smiled. “There is none I could think of better suited. If the both of you allow it.”

“I allow it,” Fingon said, breathlessly and without a moment's hesitation. And then all looked upon Maedhros.

Maedhros gulped dryly, smiled that sickly pale smile again and sighed, “Quite a way to drop this in my lap,”

“I will not force you,” Fingolfin said gently, “Think about it, sleep on it, take whatever time you need. Be the answer yea or nay.”

“No, no I think the only answer is yes. I consent; I give myself up to you and your ruling.” He turned to Fingon, “And the rest I give to you, if you want it.”

“As I give myself to you,” Fingon replied and this time his heart was not at all steady.

“Then it is decided,” Fingolfin cleared his throat. “I know not what we can expect of the future. All we can do, all we can hope to do is to strive for a better tomorrow.”

And what else was there to do but agree to the notion?

“Now then,” Fingolfin said, “Shall we begin from the top of the list and work our way down once more?”

Turgon, diligently taking notes all the while, ear twitching when Galadriel murmured her own thoughts to him, snorted and looked up. "Gladly."

It felt strange, Fingon supposed as he watched and gave his opinions on the matters he thought himself privy to, how quick and to the point it had all gone. With only a few lines his father was now recognized as ruler before the High Crown and Maedhros was a hostage. Why, it had taken very little to once more change their lives all about.

Maedhros offered nothing, safe his presence and even that was subdued and easily overlooked.

Fingon wondered what he was thinking about. 

* * *

Fingon remained in what would now become Fingolfin's temporary home. Already Turgon had proposed better, grander means of living and once everything was situated, it would become needful to provide space greater than what as effectively little more than a slightly bigger than the rest house.

But for the time being it would suffice.

Fingon's siblings and cousins took to the left over homes of Maedhros' brothers, Turgon chose Curufin's house, it had two bedrooms, once for Curufin and Celebrimbor but now for Idril and himself.

Aredhel refused Celegorm's and took Caranthir's abode, Maedhros' house was the smallest and would have needed a complete refurnishing.

It was not as if there was any _lack_ of free spaces to hunker down in.

The rest, more than half of it, remained free and gradually those from their side of the lake would move in.

Maedhros had offered Fingolfin the master bedroom, far more befitting his station.

But Maedhros was still an honoured guest, not a hostage, Fingon thought and gritted his teeth at the memory of the missive transferring Maedhros to their mercy like some manner of priced pet.

An honoured guest of the king was roofed in the king's domicile and so Maedhros and by extension Fingon, stayed with him.

If it bothered Maedhros any, he did not show it. Fingon certainly did not mind.

There was, now that they did all live under one roof, rather a lot more space and Fingon helped some of the servants drag beds into one of the unoccupied rooms. Also, a divider wall. “When we are more certain of his state,” Fingolfin whispered quietly to Fingon after he had pulled him aside, “Then you may have your own room. I apologise for springing this on you.”

On the Ice he had lived with far more elves far closer together; Compared to this, living as two with a dividing wall, that was luxury. And besides, his own room had been far too empty anyway.

But the reason for it...It was just another, kinder, word for a suicide watch. Because Maedhros, however much he had intended to kill himself outright or not, had certainly not done much to prevent it. And what was refusing life and help, if not an attempt to end it?

That put a dampener on it.

For now, Maedhros appeared remarkably calm now, perhaps a bit too calm. Too silent, too brooding. Fiddling with the edge of his bandages, sitting slumped. “I won't betray your trust, Fingon,” he said when the servants fetched linen and it was only the two of them in the room. “I meant what I said; My everything for you. My life. It is yours to do with as you wish.”

That made Fingon feel so terribly cold but he smiled despite the block of ice in his stomach. “So eager to be rid of me? It'll be fun. Just think of it as camping but with all the comforts of civilisation.” He looked around the bare, austere quarters. “I suppose I should do something for decoration...” Fingon mused aloud when the beds stood and had been made. Fingon's was packed with pillows, just the way he liked it.

“Go right ahead,” Maedhros said and crawled beneath the blanket of his bed. It was late afternoon.

Fingon found his chest tight; How dearly he wished for Maedhros' dry wit, for his jokes. But he could not be selfish and none of this was about himself. Maedhros had given himself, entrusted himself to Fingon and Fingon would not squander this trust by whining about his own discomfort at not being entertained.

Fingon would be patient. It was only the right thing to do.


	17. How Can One Keep Warm Alone?

Fingon remembered the way Maedhros had screamed himself awake, back when the world had been a different one, however little the difference had been. How blasé he had been about it and about the fact that this seemed to be routine. Not that it would have been surprising, really. Fingon himself had dreamed of the horrors he had seen, both those witnessed on the Helcaraxë and the far shorter but no less horrifying time spent saving Maedhros.

The memory of the empty sockets had followed him for weeks. Had only months later faded into something that could be approached without sending ice down his back when thinking about it.

And so, remembering Maedhros' howl, sounding like something beyond his own blackest nightmares, Fingon found no sleep that night.

He lay curled under his blankets, ears perked and nose poking out for air, and listened.

Maedhros had, once crawled into his own, not risen again. It was hard to say if he slept or was awake right up until the moment someone asked him. And asking him he did. He and others.

If he wished or wanted for anything. A bath, supper, medicine for whatever it was that plagued him.

Maedhros had declined everything, citing contentment and exhaustion and by the time Fingon had returned from eating with his family, Maedhros had managed to change himself into his sleeping clothes and answered not to any inquiries.

But he did breathe still and Fingon was endlessly ashamed of himself for doubting it.

How much trust did he truly place in his friend? He was responsible, had sworn so before witnesses, and would take his promise seriously. He would not allow Maedhros to suffer when he could avoid it.

Fingon adjusted himself a little, enjoyed the way the very filled pillows pressed lightly against his back. Cool but not cold to the touch, and the warmth of the blankets everywhere else in his cocoon. A bit of wood idly burning away in the fireplace cracked sharply and not a moment later, either by coincidence or reacting to the sound, Maedhros gave a pained, quiet sigh.

Then, silence. A precarious sort of calm that was nearly as bad as outright mayhem in its own right.

A part of him wanted to get up and wake Maedhros, see if he was even asleep. But how better make Maedhros regret his decision of placing himself in Fingon's hands then by being absolutely, obnoxiously overbearing?

But he could just as well not simply ignore the signs Maedhros gave him.

He would see that Maedhros ate and exercised come morning. Not wallow away in bed. There was a time and a place for that and that would not be tomorrow. Yes, that sounded reasonable, good, even. As if he had some idea what he was doing.

With a little part remaining vigilant, should Maedhros indeed start screaming, Fingon fell into his rest. It was not sleep, but it was good enough.

* * *

When morning arrived, there had indeed been no wailing nor yowls, Fingon remained steadfast beneath his comfortable pocket of darkness. Sun had started poking around the room with curious, spindly fingers of light, searching for unguarded eyes to throw herself into.

No such luck.

The door was pushed open, carefully, and servants poked their noses inside, gauging the mood. No one wanted to be insulted in the morning by barely awake royalty, after all.

Fingon listened, unwilling to emerge and already clamping down every single easily gripped piece of blanket beneath himself so no one could tear it away so easily.

But he could hear Maedhros rumble about, yawn and the rustle of fabric.

“I'm up,” Maedhros said hoarsely, coughed once and cleared his throat. It felt odd, hearing him so weary and mussed from sleep. Whenever Fingon had wandered over o visit, Maedhros had always been perfectly composed. Or, most of the time. Not in the beginning.

“Very well, sir,” came the reply.

And suddenly they were upon him. “My prince? Are you awake?”

“No,” Fingon said and dearly hoped this would be the end of it. Perhaps he could simply dwell beneath the cosiness of his cocoon. For how long? Who really knew? Perhaps forever.

They tried to coax him out but to get Fingon out of a bed he had grown comfortable in was as tedious as getting mice out of the walls.

“Milord...” not threatening but certainly sounding determined now. Someone tucked at the corner of his blanket.

Maedhros piped up from behind his wall, “Just throw him out, get it over with. Or he will waste the whole day.”

“You traitors!” And suddenly the entire bed tilted and Fingon, blankets and pillows all rolled from the mattress. “_All_ of you!” he called, rolled over and stood.

The maids giggled but remained silent, casting their eyes down in mock-shame.

He rounded the divider and saw Maedhros sitting at the edge of his bed. Someone had given him water, a decanter stood on the table. But the cup he held was still mostly untouched.

“Well, shall we get going then?” Fingon asked and dusted himself off to show just how unbothered he was by the rough waking call. Like a cat which had been thrown off a couch and tried to convince everyone present that it had been an inferior spot anyway. Sour grapes indeed.

It was not quite so easy, Fingon found out. Innocently, he turned around to inquire. “What is required for him, then?” Such things were important to know, Fingon reasoned. Perhaps the need would arise for Fingon to at least be able to somewhat know what Maedhros needed.

He listened as one of the servants, none of Fingon's so most likely they belonged to Maedhros' attendants, listed off just what Maedhros' morning routine entailed. It took a while. By the time they were done and the other had dragged in whatever it was they needed, Fingon's perked ears had pressed against the side of his head.

“Oh...” Fingon said after they had rattled it all off. “That is rather a lot of...upkeep...”

“Mh...” Maedhros murmured quietly and shrugged. He still sat upright, swaying faintly and clutching to his cup. Some water had slopped over his fingers and dripped undisturbed into the sheer fabric of his leggings. “You get used to it, eventually. Well, I have to, I suspect. But I do not blame you if you do not want to stay; It can get rather...messy.” Before Fingon could refuse or protest, Maedhros smiled a tepid, tight grimace, “Also I do not want you to hear me weep.”

What could he have possibly replied to it that would not have sounded like awkward scrambling and platitudes? Fingon swallowed dryly, nodded and retreated to the wash room to leave Maedhros his privacy.

Before he left, Fingon turned and smiled, “I shall wait for breakfast until you come down.”

Maedhros nodded, offered nothing in the way of a sly reply and allowed his cup to be taken. “I will see that I get this over with, then.”

* * *

His cousins and siblings had already gathered in the dining room, tables had been dragged in to make room, as had chairs. Simply because they now did not live under one roof did not mean they would not take meals together. Some things had become too comfortable a routine to abandon so suddenly.

“I saved you some eggs,” Aredhel said plainly in the way of a greetingand pushed a plate towards Fingon.

Fingon, briefly wondering if his promise had not been futile from the start, wolfed down eggs and bread and grabbed for the teapot before turning to Turgon and Galadriel, “What are you doing?”

“Exercising futility,” Galadriel said and they both leaned back in their chairs. “Until we hear word to just where exactly they hurried off to, we can write as many letters as we wish. They won't arrive in any case.”

“Why would we need to?” True, there was the desire to write a few very strongly worded letters himself, expressing just what Fingon thought of their great ideas... But those were the kind of thoughts one liked to fantasize about while taking comfort in the knowledge that one would not act on them.

More problems would come from thoughtless actions than satisfaction.

Would any of the Fëanorians even have cared about some slip of paper calling them out for their behaviour when they would so readily abandon kin? Likely not. And Fingon was quite unwilling to give them the benefit of doubt. A little pettiness was surely allowed under such circumstances.

“It does not matter for now,” Turgon said, “Ultimately, it is practice and catharsis. They try their very hardest to shatter whatever holds back the floodgates; Sometimes I nearly believe they _want_ for a civil war; Might be what counts for fun there.”

“Turgon,” Fingolfin scolded mildly from his end of the table and Turgon folded his ears.

Turgon fell back, lifted his hands and left them to drop at his sides, “_Yes_, yes apologies.”

“Where's Maedhros?” asked Angrod.

“Getting dressed.” Fingon spared them any further details. They were, after all, eating. “He said he would be along.”

“How did he sleep? For that matter, how did _you_ sleep, Fingon?” Angrod asked, still bowed over his tea like some vulture greedily coveting its prey. “It's strange to find the house empty in the morning. So silent.”

“I do not miss your snoring any,” Aegnor said and got kicked. “Ai! Nor do I miss the kicking!” He got another one for good measure.

Yawning, Finrod shrugged, “We will get used to it eventually.”

Fingon made to save himself some of the edibles before answering, “It's fine. Like camping, I suppose. Not quite, but a little. And it was only the first night. It's too early to tell how we will fare.”

“Oh well,” Aredhel said and dove back into her breakfast. “You'll have ample opportunity to find out now.”

“I suppose.”

Fingolfin yawned and cracked his neck before falling back in his chair. He wiped his face, some of his undone hair had fallen into his face. Never one for conversations this early in the morning. Not the only one in this regard. Lalwen had not even been roused and however funny it might have been to roll Fingon out of his own, trying so with her might have very started an entirely different kinslaying.

Footsteps, clumsy and uncertain lumbered outside, the sound of one feeling for the door and Maedhros entered.

He hesitated for a moment, tattered ears quivering, one rising as if testing the air, the other remained hanging limply.

“Don't fall over any chairs,” Fingon said and the sound was enough to get Maedhros moving. He did not use a cane and was once more wholly dependent on his own poor balance and whatever luck might take mercy on him.

Fingon made to stand, to offer help, but Finrod reached him first. He did not fuss nor coo over Maedhros as if he was some wounded bluebird, instead he laughed and gently touched Maedhros' arm. “Good morning, Maedhros. Oh, so up close; Did you grow even taller?”

Maedhros puffed up a little, perhaps stiffened in surprise, or perhaps not, and allowed Finrod to loop an arm around his own. “Hardly, that's just the missing width.”

Clicking his tongue, Finrod shook his head in playful dismay, “Well, we can't have that, you're already so tall. We have to fill that circumference, I don't want to look even smaller in comparison.”

Maedhros hummed but Finrod would hardly be discouraged. He acted..._incredibly _jaunty, but Fingon would have been the very last to mind his cousin's cheer. Some of it was, much like Fingon himself had done, undoubtedly to mask discomfort. It was not easy, at first, to ignore the livid streaks of scars raked all over Maedhros' ruined face. Or the gauntness. That too. Part of Fingon wondered if they would look quite so devastated if they had seen the very beginning of Maedhros' recovery. Compared to that, he looked like a young god. Almost. Not really. But Fingon did not mind.

Aegnor scrambled out of his chair to make room and Maedhros blundered about to situate himself. Fingon looked at him, searched for signs of discomfort and once he found none, made to find a clean cup for Maedhros.

Breakfast, though Maedhros refused tea and had milk, citing orders from his nurses, and Fingon, squished between Aegnor and Aredhel, smiled.

It was heartening to see him amongst others instead of alone or being fussed over by physicians. Fingon could not deny that it had been nice, having Maedhros largely to himself. But this was better, here with his peers... If Fingon squinted, ignored the fact that this was not the airy dining room of his childhood home, that Maedhros was horribly scarred and the white bandages around his face... Why, it was nearly as if they were home still.

Yes, Fingon could certainly become used to this.


	18. The Confidence That We Have Toward Him

Something about having one of his siblings leave, be it only for a short few months, set Finrod ill at ease.

He could not blame Angrod for wanting to venture out, much less if it meant kindling good relations with those that shared this continent with them. And if those distant elves in halls of sturdy stone happened to be friends, all the better.

It still had him sleep restlessly and the air felt wanting in his sibling's absence. And Valar knew he had the right to mope about from time to time.

Well, he could mope with a full stomach; Hunger and cold were the surest way to send Finrod from mopey to downright depressed. He did not enjoy brooding so early in the morning, did not enjoy to wilt under the weight of unpleasant memories. But sometimes one needed a little time confront what weighted on one's heart.

One did not need to do it whilst starving, however.

So he unrolled himself from an ocean of blankets and dug himself out from between pillows and stretched until his joints popped. His bed felt empty, no furs could do anything to make it any less so. But this was nothing new and easily ignored. He did not enjoy wallowing in his own despair, certainly not. And it was not so bad, all things considered. He was not crushingly lonely. He was simply...a little alone. That was alright.

Instead he rose and made to make himself presentable enough to not look like some stray dog sniffing about for scraps. How unbecoming, the thought alone. They would throw him right back out and right they would be.

He snorted and made to tame his tangled locks, contemplated something more elaborate than a quick wash and shuffled that thought off for later.

Breakfast first.

* * *

Late he was, and in a griping sort of mood, temper quietly scratching at his reserves. He wished to snap at the first excuse, consequences be damned if only everyone else would exactly know how he felt. Or perhaps he would simply slink off and ponder uselessly for a while; Preferably doing so while languishing and melodramatically sighing.

Maglor had rubbed off on him, it seemed. The bastard.

Finrod knew himself well enough to see the signs. How everything grated on him. His breakfast was too bland and lacked finesse, the bench he sat on was uncomfortable even through his seating pillow and Irissë had kicked him twice without meaning to.

It was not yet rancour, his temper did not yet wish to explode, though it was steadily rising. He was certainly peevish today...

He heard Fingon and Maedhros murmur to one another. Or rather Fingon talked softly, turned towards Maedhros who listened and would nod from time to time to show that he was attentive between taking bites of runny oatmeal. Delectable, Finrod was certain... Forced to eat fare an infant would have found too bland.

But Finrod had taken care to make his cousin feel welcomed. He deserved peace. And most importantly, he deserved a little respect, reduced to this shell as he was. Finrod would not pity him openly. But he pitied him regardless. How could he not?

Seeing Maedhros depressed him in a way few things had been able to. It was cruel to think like this, so unbecoming, and knowing better than that made it all the worse. But he could not help himself. Not while in the state he was in.

But seeing Maedhros shuffle about so listlessly, that certainly did not help morale. It was not his fault._ It was not_. But it did not help matters.

Finrod pitied his once so radiant cousin. All of that radiance, despoiled. All of his joy, defiled. And if the Enemy would stoop to such utter cruelty for cruelty's sake... It was hard to remain brave if this fate could strike them the moment they fell into enemy hands.

* * *

They gathered at the training grounds for exercise, to remain limber and sure in their sword skills. But it was also good to let out some of that ever present tension.

Finrod sparred with his sister, with Aredhel and twice with Turgon before he excused himself to the sides. His heart was not in it, worst of all, his mind wandered elsewhere, neither focused on the task, nor in that meditative state that sometimes accompanied a rudimentary exercise.

Now he sat next to Maedhros who had spoken little, instead shuffling and fidgeting as if supremely uncomfortable.

Finrod had offered greeting and some perfunctory joking that petered off when Maedhros offered nothing but some noises to indicate that he had heard him.

They sat in silence and it was not the comfortable kind that the three of them had shared when they had been younger. It remained like this until the rest returned, Fingon at the helm and Galadriel next to him while the rest lumbered easily a short pace behind them.

“Not up for another round?” Aegnor asked Finrod, grasped for the waterskins and handed them around before idly gulping half of his.

“Later perhaps,” Finrod said and smiled.

Fingon fell in between them onto the bench. Maedhros did not flinch but also did not speak unless addressed.

But Finrod too, was deep in thought and the only thing he had done while the others milled away was to brood. And what a brooding this had been.

He had thought of Maedhros and his brothers, of oaths both senseless and cruel. And of other things.

Maedhros, so Finrod had thought gloomily, had traded in his beauty and youth for spiteful defiance against an enemy so heinous and hideous that it, at times, defied description. Had it been a good trade? A wise one? Finrod knew not and felt shame for even considering it. To even ponder the possibility of Maedhros dying, dead, if only it meant he would have not known the horror of his own defiling.

No lustre of his once auburn mane remained, all was wild and frayed, none of it was beautiful. So short too. It was the very least of the blemishes.

Finrod felt shame at the thought. Horror and shame in equal measures. Horror at the sight, the thought of this ruined body, a body of one dead and not yet knowing of this. Starved, wasted away and skeletal like some spectre that had dragged itself from behind the veil of darkest nightmare. Skin ripped apart and stitched together, long streaks of scars like hewn rows through earth.

It had been a horror to touch his cousin, as if his destruction would spread like plaque. And how ashamed Finrod felt, for being unable to himself thinking so. Was it not Maedhros? His friend? To look upon a friend and feel only revulsion at their hurt. How low. How despicable.

Fingon, beside him, chuckled and whatever darkness loomed in Finrod’s mind blew away like mist.

He wondered about Fingon too. Something was wrong with him too. It was harder to see, easier to tolerate. But something plagued his cousin and Finrod was uncertain how to help one who did not know they needed it in the first place.

Fingon had turned numb, as if frozen, to the world around him. Little laughter, safe the time they had all gathered in his room to pull him out of whatever malaise had grabbed hold of him. He laughed not, mourned not and when others had vented and vexed, Fingon had shrugged and gone to count the spring lambs.

It was not peace; Finrod did not believe it for a moment. Fingon had been passionate about many things and had felt passionately in return. In anger and in joy. He had never been serene.

Instead, it felt like despair had blunted whatever emotion had once resided in his cousin.

Had Fingon noticed and could not bring himself to care? Did he deny it? They could not pull him from it, none of them. There were moments when he _surfaced_, almost. From beneath whatever waves that held him beneath their sway.

Was this, too, also denial? Some remnant, some memory of a fair prince carefully draped over the ruined detritus of Maedhros form to pretend all was still good and right and kind with the world? Or simply a gritting, sneering resistance to proof the Enemy a fool?

Finrod could not relate an answer, could not imagine what his cousins thought. The knowledge of that irked him. Had he not always known? As if reading their mind without any of the effort of truly doing so? They had _known_ each other. And now? Now Finrod would feel ice running down his back whenever he caught sight of them and that was not fair to anyone.

They had changed. All of them. He did not hate them; Finrod did not believe he had true capacity for hate. Not even Maedhros' brothers. No, he did not hate Maedhros, nor Fingon which would have been unfair and monstrously cruel besides. But he hated what it meant.

Maedhros had smothered kind, gentle Nelyo beneath a terrible Oath and for his troubles he had been broken apart into a hideous shape.

And Fingon, a shell of blithely, lively Findekáno. They were not the same friends Finrod had loved in Aman.

Cruel thoughts, all of them. But they felt true regardless of their cruelty. And that scared Finrod most of all.

Next to him, Fingon said something and Finrod looked up. Turgon snorted at whatever teasing reply Finrod had missed and rolled his eyes.

“Then don’t catch blades with your arms, Fingon.” He shook his head and Finrod did not need to guess just what they were talking about. Turgon still flushed in shame when reminded how he had broken Fingon’s arm.

“Should I have caught it with my face, then?” Fingon laughed.  


“You should have caught it with your blade. Just be glad it was only wood.”  


Fingon took up his own blade, twirling it about. “So show me then; I hit and you block. So I have something to compare it to.”  


Turgon followed after him, his sword, no longer wooden practice blades but true ones, already unsheathed again. “If you get a hit in.”  


Fingon laughed and singsonged, “That’s not the point of the demonstration.”  


“Orcs do not lie down so you can mow them over, though.”  


Fingon whistled once, a sharp crisp sound and Maedhros wiggled his ears at it, “That would make mowing them down rather redundant, I agree.”  


“Fingon—“

“Someone be the referee and scold me when I block with my face.”

Galadriel wandered after them, perhaps eager to get a good laugh out of the whole spectacle, if nothing else. Or press firmly onto any wound that might be struck, depending on her mood that day. So did Aegnor and Irissë.

Next to Finrod who remained, Maedhros sat, placid but dull. There was very little of interest for him here, not even the prospect of exercising some of that idle frustration out. A blind swordsman, if at all possible, would need to wait until Maedhros could walk and find his way around by himself, after all.

Finrod knew not what to say. Pity would have been easy to offer and awkward for all involved. What good would apologising have done?

Maedhros swayed about a little, a sliver, the smallest part of Finrod’s mind dreaded with some strange conviction the moment Maedhros would simply slip off the bench in some unannounced bout of fainting spell.

Instead he turned into Finrod’s direction with the faintest of movement, “Not following along to see him get his ass handed to him? That sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

Finrod blinked stupidly. And before he knew it, he laughed. “It loses its appeal after the first dozen times.”

“Does it?” Maedhros asked simply, lightly and though he did not smile, his torn ears wiggled conspirational.

And for a moment, it was as if the world was not quite as terrible as Finrod’s mind insisted. It was not fair to think all was hopeless, Finrod conceded, eager to forget the hole he had nearly stumbled into and all the dark hopelessness that lurked within; Eager to devour what good in the world there was still.

“No, I was lying. But I thought you would like some company, perhaps.”

Maedhros hummed and turned towards the noises coming from the pit. “I would not keep you here out of obligation.”

“It is not,” Finrod said. He tried to reassure both himself and Maedhros, he knew that. What an incredibly transparent attempt, how embarrassing.

“Hm,” Maedhros hummed but did not comment further on the matter. “If you would not mind, tell me what happens?”

“Certainly,” Finrod said and found himself in a better mood, inexplicably. Was it Fingon's laughter? Maedhros' sly remark, however faint, that reminded him of childhood and all the joy that came with it?

Finrod straightened. But the air had changed, had it not? As if a faint breeze of home had caressed him for but a moment.

Why, perhaps he would visit Turgon, once the beating had commenced and all was settled. And Idril, of course, he had neglected her, the poor girl. He could braid Turgon's hair, like he had done in gentle Aman. They could tell stories of happier times; He wished to hear their laughter.

Yes, Finrod thought. The time for moping, for now, was over. Sometimes it was truly that easy, it seemed.

The Enemy would not have him bend and fall to despair, not if Maedhros and Fingon still remained unbowed. Perhaps they only needed a little faith.


	19. Since You Have Given Him Authority

To have Maedhros appointed to him, no matter the implications, was in some way quite nice. Fingon could not deny that. They had been essentially ordered to spend time with one another and this felt in no way like a chore to Fingon.

It did, however, not mean that this took away all other obligations he had. Maedhros came along, tried to, at least, whenever he could. Not everywhere. Places not quickly or easily reached, nothing that required riding in carts or on horses. But that was not too often, Fingon was not eager to score the lands for new and rousing sights when he had Maedhros to come home to each evening. He contented with the small things, the surest way to remain in something resembling control.

And it was not as if there was not enough to do where Maedhros could tag along. Such times needed to be cherished, for somewhere in the future, Maedhros would work away from Fingon and then when if not now could they so easily meet with one another? Living together, of course, made this quite a bit simpler.

But not all was fun and not all was leisure; It was not a sleepover, they did not hide underneath forts made from books and pillows and blankets to giggle and play until Telperion's waning. Fingon took care that Maedhros ate and rested and did not brood too long until he vanished in his own darkness. It was not easy to find one's way out of it easily.

During the night, Fingon held silent vigil, primed like a wolf, ready to spring to aid at the first sign of distress coming from behind the divider wall. He rested, but would not sleep. _Someone_ needed to be there to provide safety. As children, it had been Maedhros. Now it was Fingon.

The screaming remained absent, Fingon found this odd but did not complain. He did not want Maedhros to suffer and if he slept soundly, all the better.

Fingon, too, rested easier. Safe in the knowledge that his family was close all around them, behind walls and under solid roofing. Living indoors was still strange, unreal in a sense, but no longer did the walls close in with every breath if he remained too long. They were just walls once more. Harmless. But too bare.

Decoration, as Fingon had announced, would need to be brought in. Something more than mere pictures. Maedhros should be able to enjoy it too, after all. It was the very least Fingon could do to make Maedhros feel at ease.

Fingon gathered flowers and pressed them carefully between sheets of paper weighed down by rocks. They smelled, faintly, of summer and looked quite nice in a vase. The vase was rather lumpy and a sad excuse that would have shamed any potterer. But Fingon made it himself and was proud when it did not crack during the baking process. Not that it would have needed to be able to carry water, dried flowers had that advantage.

Fingon described these changes in minute detail for Maedhros, he would make it as if Maedhros beheld them on his own. He tried to, at least. He had never been a wordy elf, not when compared to his cousins and siblings.

But all of this, these mundane little things without need nor significance in the grand scheme of things brought him comfort.

Books had begun to trickle back into everyday use. Leisure could be found once more between hard covers instead of loose papers or scrolls of vellum.

Fingon much preferred those over dry reports and endless numbers in endless rows.

More than once he cast longing glances to the dog-eared novel luring him from where it waited on the nightstand.

Maedhros, either sensing Fingon's wavering work ethic or coincidentally, cleared his throat and searched for his water. He sat slumped into his chair, hair hanging in damp strands and too thin arms clutching his cup. His bath had worn him out in more ways than merely physical.

Compulsive dread of having water splash into his empty sockets had him trembling still, but that had not stopped him from going joining Fingon in his fruitless endeavour to herd these senseless numbers into working order.

Maedhros used his head and required nothing else to crunch whatever numbers he came across. He divided and multiplied without the need for reassurance that tools brought. Fingon, meanwhile, had smeared ink liberally over a separate piece of paper and still could not make sense of this mess before him.

Abacus beads clicked quietly, like laughter of those in on the secret that Fingon could not master. “I made a mistake somewhere...” Fingon said when they compared their results. Maedhros served as the master list, his fail safe to assure himself that he would not go down to his father with mistake-riddled lists.

Maedhros tutted patiently, “Carry the four, Fingon, I keep telling you.”

“Carry it from where? _Where_ do you get the four from?” Fingon called over to him and crumbled his inked papers before pulling out another sheet. “I hate logistics...” Numbers told him, presumably, quite a lot. How many able bodies. How many supplies and how much time until the ever growing fortress in the distance would take if the weather held.

It felt very much as if they where children once more. In some aspect at least. They had not worried about such things back then. Or rather, Fingon had not been.

Even back in Aman, Maedhros had counted mathematics as his most reliable friend; The one one could always and forever count on to do as promised. He had enjoyed teaching it, had had fun in devising ever new torment to those finding themselves at the receiving end of ever more abstruse equations and the mute horror that was trigonometry.

Fingon found maths in all its form to be a fiendish foe not to be trusted, no matter how many times it seemed to reassure him with promises of easy pickings. It never was. Making a sound somewhere between keening frustration and groaning defeat, Fingon leaned back and stared sullenly at his work.

“Come now, don't whine,” Maedhros said from where he sat and made no attempt to move. If he was comfortable, Fingon would not drag him away from there. Maedhros smiled encouragingly into Fingon's general direction but returned all to fast back. “It's not so hard.”

Fingon shook his head to banish whatever cotton and cobwebs had begun to settle in his head. “Liar.”

“I'll walk you through the process, we're almost done. Didn't your father need these as soon as possible?” Gentle, but firm and never letting up. Just like back home...

Fingon flinched, sighed, and rubbed his face while utterly uncaring if ink was rubbed onto it in the process, “Yes, yes, I know...”

Maedhros hummed and made to drag Fingon along through his equations, forever patient and forgiving.

The book would simply have to wait a little while longer.

* * *

Legwork, more than anything else, was something Fingon understood. They had wrapped up work just as the last raspberry clouds turned fiery orange and Fingon, eager to proof that he was good for something other than complaining loudly at uncaring paper and wishing Maedhros to remain resting, made to bring the documents to his father right away.

A daunting task, surely. Why, an entire floor separated from his starting point. A venture worth to be extolled by minstrels... He had heard his father's voice and followed suit but came to a sudden halt when it became clear that he was holding an audience.

He caught what appeared to be the last leg of a heated argument, where tempers had flared and returned to something not quite sensible amicability. Instead of entering, he stood aside, unwilling to barge in. But he took no great care to conceal himself. He would not act like an intruder in his own house.

Fingon could hear his father, far more composed but his voice weary and hardly trying to hide it, “Aphadedir, please, be reasonable.”

“Majesty, I have been reasonable long enough; More than enough, dare I say. But there is a point when I refuse to bow down any longer to their disregard. I did not wander the Ice, did not loose kin, to be treated like worthless dross to be ignored.”

“We will find a compromise,” Fingolfin said, “But I cannot promise you anything beyond that.”

“But tradition mandates--!”

“Because I am sure,” Turgon cut in, “That the Enemy cares greatly for tradition and custom and will gladly postpone his evil works so we might dance around the spring pole.”

Silence. Fingon wondered if he should enter, perhaps to break up this ever deepening resentment in his brother's voice.

But that chance passed quickly and Aphadedir huffed lowly in his throat, “I see. Very well. If that is your decision, Majesty.”

Fingolfin answered, “It is. There is precious little we can do for now. But we will find a way. Until then, I can only ask that for your continued loyalty.”

“I am not the one to betray my king because my wants are inconvenienced...” The door was pushed open and Aphadedir stormed out, not noticing Fingon standing against the wall.

Once more, silence, this one broken by Fingolfin's sigh, “Turgon...”

“He would not have seen sense, no matter how gently you treated him,” Turgon replied. “He would have stood there and continued his tantrum until someone threw him out; You are tired, I can see it.”

“I am hardly the only one who is.”

Fingon entered, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. His brother and father looked up sharply, perhaps having expected Aphadedir to have spun around on his heels to continue his impassioned speech. When they found Fingon standing there instead, they both softened, Fingolfin more than Turgon.

“I...brought the reports,” he tried.

“Oh, good,” Turgon said and smiled a tired, tight-lipped smile, “I had hoped I might be able to end the day on something light. The only thing that is, so far. Did Maedhros help?”

Fingon nodded and stepped closer to hand off the papers.

“Then it will be faster still.”

“I... overheard a little of your talk, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” his father waved him off. “I would have brought it up during breakfast, no doubt.”

“May I ask what happened?” The fact that there had been such animosity, such conflict, amongst themselves, sounded worrying. Had it been the first time? Fingon wondered and found his thoughts turning to festering discontent and dissidents in the dark. Surely not. But what if?

Fingolfin pawed at a few loose sheets of paper, neat columns with short lines on each one. He straightnend with his hand, sorted them and placed them face down.

“What's that?” Fingon asked.

“A petition,” Turgon said mildly. “For the right to hold council and choose a high-king. It's why we squabbled in the first place.”

Fingon cocked his head, “But Maglor is the next in line...” Rather, Maedhros would have been entitled to the crown. But he had made it quite obvious what he thought of that. “Did he forfeit?” Which did not sound like something the proud Fëanorians would have ever done willingly.

Fingolfin shook his head, a weary hand against his temple, “They are afraid. A high-king towers over all else and to decide on one who will use his might justly is prudent.”

He sighed, “There is reason to believe that the Fëanorians might not be the wisest choice. Moreover, the elders remember the time when they elected my father; It gave them security, the knowledge that there would always remain the possibility to remove him from power if too many found his rule lacking or harmful.

“It is another piece of tradition, normalcy, they find absent. This new world, this new order –lack thereof, perhaps-- scares them. We have precious little to cling to these days.”

“What does that mean for us, then? Revolt?”

“I certainly hope the Noldor as a whole are a little more reasonable that that. But the hurt runs deep, Fingon. Not everyone can so easily set aside their grief and resentment to work together.”

Fingon thought of Maedhros, still sitting upstairs alone, waiting for Fingon to return. This was an entirely different kind of worry. A real, tangible worry that could be sorted out, instead of this ephemeral, foggy idea of disgruntled half-strangers amongst an undefined number of discontented elves.

“That is enough for one evening, I should believe,” Fingolfin said and rose, the petition rolled up tightly and banished to the drawer. They could worry about such things in the morning. “It is high time for rest.”

Turgon hummed and the three elves departed on good-night wishes.

* * *

“There you are,” Maedhros said when Fingon returned. He had his ears splayed, though not in the manner of solemn sorrow, instead they quivered and moved, as if to catch sounds just out of reach. Had he heard the ruckus down below? But when the door closed, they swivelled towards Fingon, “Everything alright?”

Fingon told him of the things they had talked about, untroubled by the possibility that any of it would ever leave the room. Maedhros had never been one for gossip, at least not for spreading it, and if anything he had become ever more tight-lipped.

“I cannot help but feel at least a little responsible for it,” Maedhros said when Fingon had changed into his sleeping clothes.

“How could this possibly be your fault? What could you have done?”

“It is what I didn't do. Be it through inaction or weakness.”

“That is a healthy outlook on life, I'm sure...”

“So sarcastic,” Maedhros laughed, “But no. I can hardly help it.”

Maedhros already wore his garments, they hung far too loosely from his rake thin frame. Fingon could hear him putter about the room, making towards his bed. He seemed to be in a better mood, for anything else but shaky contentment would have prompted him to ask for help instead of searching around to do it on his own.

Fingon had learned to leave him be if he was determined enough to try. But he listened attentively regardless. “You are stuck with us here, as much victim as the rest.”

“That's a convenient excuse, you know,” came the reprimand.

Fingon buried himself in his pillows and pulled his blanket high enough to graze his chin before tucking the rest beneath himself. Just as he liked it best, enveloped by soft warmth, no cold able to slip inside. Some memories did not fade easily.

“I imagined it a few times,” Maedhros said. “When I had nothing else to do. How I would take the crown back only to give it to your father; How I would stand there, or bow, who knows, with my brothers seething behind me all the while knowing that I did the right thing.” A short, mirthless chuckle, “I liked to imagine myself to be some tragic hero and could not even be bothered to lift a hand.”

Before Fingon could answer, could think of anything to say, Maedhros continued. “But alas, I was too eager to please them, too afraid to draw their ire. And, perhaps most damming of all, I did not wish to bother with it.”

“We will think of something,” Fingon finally said and felt this to be the most diplomatic answer.

There was no scoffing from behind the wall, but the silence spoke loud enough for itself. Until finally, “Goodnight, Fingon.”

“Sleep well,” Fingon replied quietly and made to guard Maedhros' sleep. This, too, was something within his power.


	20. Maedhros

Maedhros did not sleep. Not that he couldn't have, had he really wanted to. A quiet request to one of his physicians and he would have found himself with enough sleeping aids to tide him over through the rest of the year.

But it was a matter of courtesy and, perhaps, of shame. To admit weakness did not come easy to him and now that Fingon lived with him, it was harder to hide all of his shortcomings.

He could not bear the thought of screaming as if he was being murdered while sharing living space with Fingon. It felt like a poor way to repay his kindness.

Fingon groused audibly, a venom behind the sound that Maedhros had not heard from him in all the time they had been reunited, his ears perked in surprise. “Fingon? Something wrong?”

There was silence for a moment, the rustling of fabric being shuffled around on the bed and then more grumbling. “No,” came the answer at last.

“You're a poor liar, you know?”

“Mmm...” Fingon replied dully and _then_ Maedhros was worried. He'd had no intention of teasing Fingon beyond his tolerance but it was so terribly impossible to tell without any clues to go off on.

“What's the matter?” Maedhros tried, carefully, and tried to listen for any hints that would help him sort this mess out before it could fester into something terrible.

“No, sorry, “Fingon finally said and there was so much misery behind the words that it made Maedhros pause. “It's just-- It _snowed_...”

“Oh...” He was not entirely sure of how to answer that. There had been a time were this would have been fantastic news. Snow had once meant fun and games and endless joy. And now... The Ice had erased much of what had once been happiness.

“I'll be up in a moment,” Fingon promised and it was awful to hear him so listless.

“You needn't hurry; I don't have anywhere to be,” Maedhros assured with a lightness he did not feel. It wasn't a lie in any case. There was no one who depended on him. And to let Fingon have as much time as he needed was the very least he could do.

* * *

The atmosphere during breakfast was hideously familiar with its sullen silence and Maedhros found himself tensed and hunched, not yet shivering but very close to it, waiting for the break in peace and the ensuing fight.

His stomach had been tied into knots at the thought and his food tasted of dirt when he thought back to his fateful last encounter with his brothers. Surely not. His cousins would not go for one another like that. They were more sensible in these matters.

But the Ice might have twisted and edged what had once been bright and gentle.

_Awful_…

The door was slammed shut loud enough for the sound to echo through the house.

“I need my doors intact, please!” Fingolfin called out into the hallway. The only answer was another door being closed forcefully, though not as hard as the front door and aunt Lalwen grumbled her way through the room.

Maedhros knew better then eavesdropping, even if his hearing had grown finer than he could ever remember having. Hearing so many heartbeats, however quiet, was certainly doing nothing to keep his concentration on one thought.

His head was a jumbled mess filled with sounds that found no anchor to tie them to and of sensations he could barely anticipate.

A part of him, the one that might have had, one day long ago, held the same brightness his cousins possessed, wished to hide away alone once more. Alone meant the silence was not a hostile one and it was quite a lot easier to pretend that his solitude was a choice.

“Maedhros?”

Startled from his thoughts, Maedhros flinched and swept his cutlery off the table. “Sorry,” he said and made to bend down to search for them.

“That's alright,” Aegnor said, “I have it.”

“Here, take these ones instead,” Turgon said and the quiet clink of metal upon wood rung quietly.

He grabbed for them and the cold metal in his hands cleared his head a little. “I-- thank you. What is it?”

“I was just wondering if you were nearly done,” Finrod said from somewhere across from him, a little to the right. “After breakfast, we will go sit by the fire.”

“You can go on without me,” Maedhros suggested. Keeping them here while he gagged down his food did not feel as if it would alleviate the mood any...

“We can wait,” Angrod, returned from his journey, offered. A beat of awkward silence and Maedhros wished to sink into the floor.

“You heard him, go along. He doesn't need spectators,” Fingolfin said and the sounds of benches pushed back and scuffling feet made way to quiet talking somewhere across the room.

“Take your time,” Fingolfin said and his voice stayed where it had been all morning.

“You needn't wait on my account; It is more comfortable by the fire.”

But there was no sound of another rising and instead the teapot scraping across the table before being lifted. Tea poured into a cup and the _thunk_ of being put down again. “That is quite alright, Fingon's here too.”

“Hmm,” Fingon acknowledged quietly.

“I apologize for our poor company today; The first snow is quite rough on us.”

This made Maedhros swallow, though it could have been the bite of hard boiled egg, “Did something happen?” Harvest could freeze on the fields if the frost had come too early, cattle could have died. Famine in winter would have been ample reason to be sullen, amongst other things.

“Not as such, no,” Fingolfin said. Fingon was not one for many words today, it seemed. “But Ice has a way to remain in the bones and the cold does nothing to thaw it...” Fingolfin said in the way of an answer and elaborated no further.

“Ah...” What could he answer to that?

“I don't think we will venture out today,” Fingolfin continued, “Work can wait for a while.”

“I'm glad,” Maedhros said. “You deserve a break.”

Fingon had told him of the constructions springing up in the distance. Walls growing ever more mighty, towers thriving like mushrooms in the rain.

But Fingon now gave no indication of anything resembling such enthusiasm. Maedhros could hardly blame him for it. Instead he searched on his plate for anything left, found nothing and made to rise. “I'm done, I think.”

Fingon gently led him to the others and the sudden warmth of the fire made Maedhros' skin itch. But it was not unpleasant and only now did he realize that he had been feeling cold at all.

“Couch is just behind you, watch your legs.” Because tumbling over furniture would have been a rather poor way to settle his stomach.

“I have it,” Maedhros said and eased himself down onto the cushions. He stretched out his legs and found something, someone sitting in front of him.

“Ai, don't kick me,” Aegnor said and laughed when Maedhros retreated. Maedhros felt a hand briefly touching his leg as if to pass off a game of tag, playful, “It's alright; I'll survive that nudge.”

Finrod chimned in, “But you act like one who won't.” Scuffling noises promptly commenced and giggling made Maedhros' ears twitched. At least one more cousin was pulled into the fray and Fingolfin tried, once and ultimately futile, to bring a little order before anyone would roll into the fireplace.

Fingon leaned against him against his bony shoulder which could not be comfortable. But Maedhros did not insist on him finding a more comfortable spot. Instead, in a bout of sudden selfishness, he enjoyed the living pressure and the warmth of another body squished against himself. “Well, I'm not getting up to fetch quenching water if they set themselves on fire.”

“You would be warm, at least,” Maedhros shrugged.

“They would learn a lesson,” Fingon agreed and gave a surprised yelp when he was pulled away, down into the ever growing tickle fight.

“Cold are you?” Finrod called and laughed. “A little exercise will fix that, Fingon.”

Maedhros was spared the ensuing madness and he took the time to listen to Finrod's outrageous cursing. What was it with sailors and the sudden ability to string endless, colourful cussing together. But there was also laughter and Maedhros enjoyed listening to them. It had been a while since he had witnessed such levity amongst so many elves.

* * *

“I'm hot...” Aegnor said when all had settled somewhat.

“How presumptuous,” Galadriel said.

“How brazen!” came the impassioned cry back.

“Don't you dare start another round, I will join in if you do!” Lalwen called. “Go outside for that.”

“We could have a snowball fight later,” Turgon mused, “I am still owed a rematch.”

“So eager to loose?”

Tea was passed around and Maedhros nipped carefully at his own cup. His stomach had settled and tea was a welcomed treat. He nearly spilled when Fingon returned to his previous position with a little to much exuberance.

“Sorry about that,” Fingon said.

“That's alright, I didn't drop it,” Maedhros replied and nodded somewhere towards his tea.

“I meant in general, what a moody brat I was today. You didn't deserve that.” Fingon had returned to his usual self. As if the frost around his soul had all melted away. Maedhros was glad to hear him so.

“That alright as well.” Maedhros smiled into the warmth that enveloped them. “We are all allowed to have a bad day from time to time.”

It was, after all, the very least he could do for Fingon.


	21. For The Mountains May Depart And The Hills Be Removed, But My Steadfast Love Shall Not Depart

It was spring and the fortressed palace grew ever steady. Fingon could make no sense from the plans, could not quite imagine the drawing of high walls and jutting parapets in reality. Not like Turgon who had already drawn up room plans and given them rough measurements of the living quarters. He was enthusiastic, more so than Fingon could remember him be in years.

It left a little time for loafing about which suited Fingon just fine. Turgon carried with him a certain nervousness, as if he needed to stand, to pace about and work and if not that, to plan for work. Finrod, short of simply tying him to his chair, went with him on walks along the lake shore.

Perhaps some of that restless energy had rubbed off on Maedhros, for he too seemed discontent to idle. Perhaps it was just the weather that invigorated him so suddenly. Whatever it was, Fingon found him in thoughts that were not of his usual brooding. He planned.

* * *

“I have been lazing around long enough, I should think,” Maedhros said and had just about enough time to smile and appear serious before he dove back into his sandwich and tore it apart like a wolf might a lone sheep.

He had had such a sudden bout of appetite, wholly unannounced but not unwelcome. They had surrendered their tea snacks to him and even now he was jittery, eager for more, and Fingon could hear his stomach rumbling. It was good to see, as seldom and violently as it happened. But it balanced out the times of queasy nausea that killed all desire for food. Fingon was glad and had mourned his teacakes only for a little bit.

Fingolfin twitched his ears and waited for his nephew to end the sandwich's misery. Then, he hummed and spoke after short consideration, “I will not take away your agency by refusing you, but I wish for you to know this--” Fingolfin folded his hands, rubbed them together and settled once more, “--You needn't feel guilty or pressed for it; if you cannot work then continue to recover,” Fingolfin said. “That said, I look forward to your expertise but the last thing I want is to coerce you into your duties; An advisor's work is hard.”

Maedhros tilted his head as if to concede but did not redact his words, “So is everyone else's. Besides, I am just about ready to scale the walls. Poor Fingon, ever patient as he is with me, I do not want to get on his last nerve.”

“I do not mind,” Fingon was quick to assure. He searched around for the teapot and refilled his and Maedhros' cup. It was enthusiastically drained and Fingon refilled it once more without even setting the pot down.

Maedhros smiled. “I am willing and well enough. It is high time that I repay your kindness.”

* * *

It was, of course, not quite so straightforward as that. Maedhros could not simply start to advise if he was not familiar with all those myriads of topics that concerned the Crown. Some of it could be picked up later, would have to be or Maedhros would forever try to catch up, but there was still more than enough work to do before Maedhros would sit next to Fingolfin in court.

There was also an entirely different matter to consider.

* * *

“I think we should start with the circlet,” Turgon proposed before the remnants of teatime had even been cleared away. Fingolfin had wandered off for a walk before work ensnared him once more and thus did not witness the sudden bout of activity.

Turgon, free day or not, seemed more eager than anyone else to get to work, “It is customary to have it complement the king's crown, to show togetherness in goal and unity in intent.” And since it was as good a start as anywhere else, no one objected.

“I have a few drawings ready; Finrod, help me?” Turgon asked and together the two elves heaped sketches on the table. “We cannot make prototypes out of all of them, I am afraid. But we can limit your choices and see how it goes from there.”

Fingon could not help himself but wonder how long Turgon had stood chomping at the bit, waiting for an opportunity to dress another of his cousins in gold of his own design. Even if he lacked the skill to bring ideas etched in drawing to life, it did not diminish his desire to imagine and devise.

Maedhros hummed in agreement and turned lightly, “Fingon, would you be so kind?”

And Fingon was, of course. Bowing over the onslaught of sketches and drawings made from coal and ink, he inspected the selection. A few were right out; They did not fit in the least with Fingolfin's crown and were discarded.

“Many of them were simply idle doodling,” Turgon admitted when he set them aside.

The tiny writings at the paper's edge suggested to use gold and silver which was no problem any longer. They had found raw ore, enough to use on such things. He did not wish to call them frivolities, for a proper circlet to befit ones station was important. A little opulent, certainly, but Maedhros would have looked so well with it. Gold suited him as well as it did Fingon.

“There are so _many_,” Aredhel said from her corner of the table, also buried in papers. “Since when have you been making plans for this?”

Turgon shrugged. “Some were left over from ideas I proposed to father for his own crown. But only some are. A few, as I said, were doodles.” He realised himself just how that sounded and scrambled to correct himself. He blushed lightly, much like a young Turukáno had. “I made some meant only for you, really. I did not simply reprocess ideas, I promise.”

Maedhros smiled and made to adjust his bandages even as his ears wiggled a little from amusement. “That's alright, do not worry. If it is good enough for a king then it will suit me thrice over.”

“Still, we will find something that fits and is meant exactly for you,” Angrod said, “Complementation and meaning left aside for a moment; We need to start somewhere.”

“Agreed.” Fingon nodded and leaned against Maedhros' armrest. At this rate they would remain here all day.

“How will we decide on that?” Galadriel asked. “Because ultimately it is your decision, cousin. But I suppose Fingon will decide for you?”

How very unjust to heap the attention and all unto poor Fingon. There was not a single chance that anything he decided would be looked kindly upon by his family. Whatever he did, there would be discontent, he just knew it.

“I trust the vote of majority,” Maedhros said, perhaps in an effort to remain diplomatic. Or because he still had enough of a survival instinct remaining to give an answer that would not get him torn to shreds.

“That is a very bold move, depending if the majority has taste--” Turgon said with a pointed glance and got punched in the shoulder by his sister. Therefore, retaliation. As was proper.

Whilst they squabbled, Fingon brushed aside sketches, glad that now it was not upon him to decide on something suitable. He could have done it, he was sure of it. He would have never said it aloud, but he had enjoyed the newer imagining of the High King's Crown. Grandfather Finwë's had well-suited its purpose but had never striven towards true artistry beyond flawless craftsmanship. Tastefully practical, befitting his station and nothing more.

The one Fëanor had imagined and made for himself --another break in tradition, one of countless casual hand waves to dismiss yet another custom-- had been utterly unashamed of its own glory. The fanciful carvings, the glittering accents of gems and pearls, he had enjoyed those and would not have minded seeing Maedhros with one as well. A shame he had never seen High King Maedhros in all his glory. A shame.

Perhaps it was better that he was left to decide his own decorations. The gold thread had not been touched in years, after all. Perhaps it was restraint. Fingon did not believe it himself.

“I would like to step outside, if permitted,” Maedhros requested when calm had returned and once more sketches and ideas were proposed.

“Sure, sure,” Finrod said. “If you are truly willing to leave it up to us, then we don't even need Fingon.” He winked. “You will just have to live with whatever we saddle you with.”

“Fair enough,” Maedhros conceded with a shrug. So dismissed, the two of them retreated outside, where there was sunshine to bask in for a little while. Fingon was delighted to see that Maedhros' skin had returned to a healthier complexion, the sickly pale sheen that had made his skin look nearly translucent finally chased away. Just another victory that he quietly celebrated.

Idril had already beat them to it and a visitor kept her company. Orodreth and a pile of clothes in between them filled the bench.

Orodreth, who lived away from the rest of his family, roamed in the woods and came home only when his tunics tore. They could not have hold him behind the walls, safe perhaps, in chains. And that would have as surely driven him away from them as nothing else could.

So they left him to roam and kept a plate waiting for him when he decided to show himself for dinner, rare as that was.

And yet here he sat, washed and sun-dried clothes piled between the cousins, eyes keen behind half-fallen lids, attentive and forever unable, or unwilling, to learn how to mend clothes himself.

Idril made room on the little bench for Maedhros to scoot onto. Fingon declined the offer and bid her to remain where she was, unwilling to chase his niece and nephew away.

“What did you do with this one?” Idril asked as she did with every new find, every strange tear and rip and hole.

“Don't remember,” Orodreth said and shrugged.

“Well, fine,” Idril sighed, threaded her needle and searched for a patch of fabric amongst her scraps that looked enough like it. “Soon you will wear more patches than clothes, you know? You should get some new things...”

Orodreth shook his head, “It serves well enough. And it will only get torn again.”

“Then just go out naked, if its all the same to you,” Idril huffed, “Saves me work.”

“The night breeze nips me so already, I need not give it any more places to freeze me,” Orodreth said and smirked.

“Idiot,” Idril declared, not unkindly, and searched for her scissors.

“How fairs your rock climbing?” Fingon asked when no one else spoke. He was not in the mood for silence.

This animated Orodreth, the one topic he could talk about forever and the rest of eternity. The way the mountains were unfamiliar where at home he had known them all by name and touch alone. How here the stone felt different and the mountain was not certain what he thought of elven hands and elven feet scrambling about its walls. Dangerous, yes, but Orodreth had looked forward to these unknown, unfamiliar mountains just begging to be made acquaintances with. Fingon could see these odd, flat leather shoes that did not even have a proper sole. Made for climbing and nothing else peak out from a thrown open flap of his bag.

“It is rough going,” Orodreth admitted, cheeks glowing and eyes alight. “But I love it here. Back then, I knew them all and became quite tired of forever climbing the same. But here? No matter which one I scale, I see another one in the distance. Here might be mountains forever on and on.”

Perhaps that was the trick to lead a life free of pain and fear. To keep ones head in the clouds. To do what one loved and never look back, Fingon mused. He doubted he could do it so easily. Not, and this he told himself sincerely, that he wished to call Orodreth simple or uncaring. He was just very much in love with his mountains and not quite as much with elves.

Idril threw a mended tunic in his face when she had had quite enough of his babbling about mountains and ravines and from what stream he had drank. “Stay for dinner,” she said and there was no room for argument.

“I think I should,” Orodreth agreed. “I am here already, so I might as well. Do you have fish? It has been some time since I had some.”

“Then don't climb so often onto mountains and you could have it whenever you want,” Idril said.

Fingon listened to them pettifogger playfully and joke around, watched Idril's clever hands sew and Orodreth folding his clothes together, when Aegnor stuck his head through the window next to him.

“So we might have just a little problem,” Aegnor said, arms resting on the windowsill. He leaned out farther, golden hair spilling around his neck and over his shoulders and greeted Orodreth before turning back to Fingon, still hanging halfway out the window.

Typical. Fingon smirked, “Such as what?”

“There is no majority, everyone chose something different...”

“Aegnor...”

“I know, I know. Sound planning, bad execution. _But,_” Aegnor said and smiled slyly, “We eliminated the choices down to a manageable size. So, you know, something good certainly came from it. You still have to choose, however. It will tip the scale.”

Maedhros made no move to rise and instead waved his hand in a little circle, “Go on ahead. I trust your decision. But I need to sit for a while, I think.”

“You're sure? I'd hate for you to end up with something you did not enjoy.”

Maedhros turned a little, just enough to face the direction Fingon was in. “It is not me who has to see it,” he grinned blandly.

Fingon sighed, squeezed Maedhros' shoulder briefly and went once more inside to, _hopefully_, finally decide on something.

* * *

“I like this one,” Fingon said and pointed towards a sketch with a circlet made from braided gold and silver. At the front, where it ran together to form a blunted triangle, shards of ruby could be set in. It was far more restrained, not a surprise really, few things could rival Fëanor's ideas of splendour.

But at least it was not the utterly stoic, plain circlet without anything distinguishing itself from a plain loop of metal. That one had just been masochism. The other, it seemed, agreed with that, for this particular sketch had not even made it into the closer selection.

“I feel as if I _should_ suggest something with stars,” Fingon mused, one finger resting underneath his chin and his forehead crinkled in thought. “So he can remain true to something of his kinship.” He certainly did not want to erase it, any of it, no matter how uncomfortable it might have been. He could not bear the thought of Maedhros having to hide any part of him, however painful that part might have been, because some took offence.

Those that had not forgiven him, perhaps they would never. Those that had not accepted Maedhros amongst them, what did they matter? If Maglor's orders and Fingolfin's compliance of them had done nothing to quell the resentment, then what else would? One could not please everyone and the only way to make them happy would have been to drag Maedhros to trial and then, perhaps, throw him out into the wilderness, blind and all.

Fingon grimaced at the thought and remembered that he was not alone in the room. Before any inquiries could be voiced, he cleared his throat and pointed at the ivy crown. “This one, I think. He looks well with gold and silver.”

“It is also rather light,” Turgon agreed, “I think it is best to not have something strain his neck any more than necessary.” He rolled the sketch up and fitted it into a narrow tube. The rest was stacked on top of one another and Turgon made to walk towards the door. “I can have something for a fitting ready in a few days.”

“I will tell him that, then,” Fingon said and smiled contently. “Now that that is over--” he started and knew his own folly when Finrod grinned.

Galadriel descended onto him. “Clothing is next. For him and for you.” She turned to her brother, “Did you say Orodreth was here? Him too then.” She would have to surprise her nephew, so he had no time to flee which would mean him scaling a roof or the nearest tree and then sit there until he was left alone once more.

“But--” Fingon tried but could not even cough up an excuse fast enough before he was already seized at the sleeve. “But I already have clothes.” He was not let go, however. Galadriel only reeled him closer in.

“None befitting court life and Maedhros has nothing but these plain tunics,” Galadriel said and shrugged. Her grip did not soften, she knew her cousin too well to let him weasel away. “And so that means finding a tailor, which I already did, you are quite welcome, and having you fitted. The both of you, Fingon, don't even try to run, I notified the guards to drag you back.” Fingon shifted as it to take the risk regardless of how many guards would be on his heels if he did.

“Aredhel hasn't been out to train since three days ago, did I mention that?” Galadriel said and then all struggle ceased, bled from Fingon in moments. It did not help that Aredhel chose this moment to roll her neck, cracking the joint savagely.

“Oh good! You still have a survival instinct. And here I was worried.” Galadriel dragged him to the door, they would have to get Maedhros and Orodreth, after all, “Shall we?”

With a whining keen of terror befitting one being dragged off to execution, Fingon followed.

* * *

“My prince, if you would stand still--” Such and another dozen iterations of the same plea had all fallen on deaf ears. Fingon squirmed atop his platform like one trying to stomp out a fire and more than once had he nearly bolted. Such was not the impression of a dignified ruler some might have imagined Fingon the Valiant to be. Not that Fingon cared.

“You poked me when I held still!” Fingon called, horribly betrayed and not in the least inclined to forgive such treatment. Perhaps he would fill Galadriel's pillow with walnuts later, it would only be fair. Speaking of which, she sat perfectly content, without needles sticking everywhere and drank tea.

Orodreth, also dragged along and looking similarly unhappy, snorted once. Perhaps a willing accomplice could be found in his nephew and a pillow could be tempered with so much faster with two instead of just one.

“It happens, I am sorry.” His seamstress apologised but made no attempt at showing mercy, so what good was her apology really? Fingon nearly kicked out like a horse when cold metal slipped past his leg.

“Then I might as well squirm!” The first prick had come as a surprise and Fingon had been neglecting tailored clothes just long enough to forget the dread of a young tailor enthusiastically working at her craft. Now that he knew of the danger lurking without knowing the strike... Well, that just made it all the worse.

“It will take longer then,” she tried to reason and took her chance at securing the pieces on his shoulder. Nothing pricked Fingon and she was tempted to point this out to him but did not.

In stark opposition, Maedhros with his own seamster, had stood quiet and still, a chair behind him to fall into when need should have arisen. During _his_ fitting there had not once been whining nor shrieking, no apologies when a needle grazed delicate flesh. If there had been at all. Fingon felt very childish but contemplated demanding to have that one come back for him regardless. A tempting thought and whatever, or whomever, Maedhros had must have been so much better.

Had Fingon just been unfortunate and ended up with the stabby one? Just his luck then. Very well. So be it then. “What are you even doing here still?” Fingon called over to Galadriel still enjoying herself. How smug she was.

“I enjoy watching you squirm, cousin dearest,” she laughed and smiled sweetly. Very well, walnuts in the mattress too. It would be hard work, but such was the kind of effort one extended to their kin. He smiled giddily at the thought and yelped when he was once more nearly missed.

* * *

One more thing was discussed before all retired for more pleasant topics of conversation and a few rounds of cards. Orodreth had joined them, the call of the mountains and woods for once not stronger than the invitation to remain for a while.

“You would benefit from a scribe, I believe,” Fingolfin said during dinner. Maedhros listened and could do little else, busy decimating everything edible in his reach which was considerable. How unfair, such long arms.

Angrod carefully pulled the vase towards himself, lest the flowers got caught up in this violent frenzy and be devoured too.

Maedhros grunted something that was either agreement or a request for another roasted trout. Just in case, it was treated as either. Skin crunched crisply as Maedhros tore through it more savagely than any bear. Tender meat separated from tiny bones and those were arranged carefully, as carefully as was permitted, at the edge of his plate.

Fingon sighed quietly at the thought. It would be the turning point, the moment from which then on they would get to spent less time together. He had known it all along that it would come and yet all the same it caught him by surprise and he reeled at the thought of it alone.

Fingolfin continued, undisturbed by Maedhros' eating. No one had cared so far, conversation continued as if Maedhros was not eating like a starved lion and not once had there been sneering or jokes on his expense.

Fingon was thankful for that, even if he himself would never have gotten away with manners half as deplorable. Still, a momentary weakness was forgivable and Maedhros did not need to be antagonised for things he could not help himself at the moment.

“I want it to be one of your followers, if possible, though I will not forbid your choice, whomever it might end up being. Someone to make your life a little easier, to read letters to you and help you compose them.” He mused and stirred honey into his tea. “Perhaps a little medical experience, if at all possible, always useful.”

“_Mhrm_...” Maedhros said through a mouthful of buckwheat and vegetables. His ears stood erect, attentive even as they bobbed up and down a little from his chewing. Half a boiled egg vanished in two bites and its brethren were no safer for it.

Fingon did not sigh though he wished for it. How glad he was that Maedhros had found the courage to once more take on such duties where before he seemed content with wallowing about with only his thoughts and old regrets keeping him company. But all the same, Fingon had wished for it to never end. To be selfish and find comfort in Maedhros' assuring presence, day after day forever.

But it was not his right to be selfish and so he smiled, made pleasant conversation and refilled Maedhros' tea.


	22. Your Old Men Shall Dream Dreams, And Your Young Men Shall See Visions

When Fingon could hear his own thoughts again, the orc was dead. It was not unique in that regard for dead orcs were all that remained from their clash.

It was also not the only orc Fingon had killed that day, though it had been the last and the only one which had come this close to ending him. _It_ \--never he, never she, no matter what similarities and differences could be seen-- had been snarling and raging and doing its best to maim Fingon just moments ago. A knife, Fingon's knife, had been stabbed clean through its throat and had put a stop to its assault with a finality that would have frightened Fingon once. Not any longer. All things lost their novelty after a while if repeated long enough.

All was silent, save those injured and yet able to make their suffering known. Enemies were swiftly relieved of their troubled existence, the single greatest mercy that could be given to these wretched things. Their own would find care in Mithrim and safety behind its walls.

This silence was different to the maddened howls and clashing steel of the skirmish.

Fingon sighed and turned back to his task. He was not eager to wrench it out, considering the force he had taken to lodge it there in the first place. His first instinct was to simply leave it there, to toss up his hands in utter unwillingness and get a new knife.

The orc remained dead and it stared upwards into nothing from dead eyes growing ever cloudier. It looked surprised. As if it had not expected Fingon to pull his dagger when his sword had been lost in the fray somewhere. He had it now, found kicked away a short length, just out of arms reach, and forgotten when Fingon had been swept of his feet.

And finally, there was Finrod who came up to him, braids stained but still immaculate, eyes hard and alert. Glad that his bumbling cousin was safe and not yet shredded to ribbons, his gait slowed. It was hard to meet him head on. “Are you alright?” he asked, for it never hurt to make sure.

Fingon was not eager to wrench his knife out, considering the force he had taken to get it in there. He wondered, idly, what had driven this particular foe into his blade with such wanton abandon. Easier to focus on that then the fact that he had been distracted enough to nearly get himself killed.

“You should take your rest,” Finrod decided and grabbed Fingon by the shoulder. “You will do us no good ruminating.”

Fingon bend down to retrieve his knife, if only to escape Finrod's piercing gaze. He grabbed the handle and tentatively twisted, all the while trying to avoid the clouded over stare from the dead orc. There was no budging, only limp flopping and horrid, wet crunching as cartilage half-severed got mutilated even further. Fingon braced one hand on a cooling, greasy cheek, gripped the handle tighter and ripped upwards. “I feel fine,“ Fingon said and was almost entirely truthful. The squelching sounds had not helped in making him feel any more at ease.

Finrod creased his brow and pulled his cousin in front of him to stare at him doubtfully. “Usually you lie better than this as well.”

“Do not fuss over me,” Fingon said and wondered perhaps a bit too long about the soiled dagger in his hand. To breach the ever growing pause, he grinned at his cousin, “What shall others think?”

“Others have not been running out for every single patrol. Most take breaks from time to time.”

“I am fine,” Fingon insisted and bend to wipe the gore off his blade.

"Go home. No one shall be cross with you for resting. Indeed, I shall be cross if you will not." Finrod pointed towards the high towers of Fortress Mithrim and when Fingon made to argue his point, Finrod squeezed his shoulder. “What will your father say if he finds out you work yourself to the bone?”

“He does it too,” Fingon replied. It sounded petulant even to his own ears.

“Come back when you are rested; I will not have you get hurt through your own stubbornness.” Finrod raised an eyebrow, cocked his head a little.

Fingon felt like a child. “Do not make me regret leaving you here without me.”

And Finrod, bright amongst the darkest horrors, smiled. “Of course not.”

* * *

The throne room, or whatever else came closest to it, had never suited him. When the construction of Mithrim had finally concluded, a... _shift_ had been noticeable. There were those that hid behind the walls and seemed intent on never stepping out again. Eager to forget the ordeal that strife and darkness and the Ice had brought. A soldier, even a prince, caked in gore and dust, would not have been a welcomed sight.

He was reminded of his childhood, when the little grandchildren of Finwë would sneak about the Halls, ever out of sight, an endless round of hide and seek.

Out of sight, remaining unmentioned, Fingon listened to Fingolfin talk to those assembled in a tone that was forever foreign to Fingon's image of his father.

Turned away, hidden away in the corners were shadow and stone cloaked him, Fingon could not see Galadriel or Maedhros, both flanking Fingolfin to either side. But he knew them to be there regardless.

Galadriel knew how to raise her voice and make herself heard. Maedhros whispered into Fingolfin's ear and his presence was so small, his size did nothing to make him stand out. It hurt to see him so, even if Fingon was glad to know him busy and protected.

Because Fingon knew of those who would have seen Maedhros rather thrown to the wolves than next to his uncle.

Fingon held no sympathy for those who would seek revenge on an already crippled elf. Because Maedhros had suffered under those who had no right to measure out punishment and yet still there where those who would have wished him another thirty year eternity of agony without hesitation.

He did not blame those who would never forgive Maedhros, it was not his choice to make for others. Fingon himself would not have thought forgiveness possible, had thought their friendship dead right up until he had learned of Maedhros' terrible fate.

But there were those who saw the twisted ruin of his face, his cropped ears and the blindfold and thought this to be not quite enough just yet. Those who had no quarrel in letting him know that forgiveness would never be given and yet felt entitled to Maedhros' grovelling regardless.

For those Fingon had little sympathy left and the cold outrage he felt in these moments surprised even himself.

He would have never thought it possible to feel animosity towards his own kin so even if the hateful malcontents numbered no more than perhaps two dozen. And really, someone had to; Maedhros would not. He took it all in silent patience, unwilling to defend himself.

There had been times, few of them but each an every one terrible, that one of them would not remain content merely insinuating and Fingon dreaded the day when one of them would outright attack. Would they truly go so far? A part of him denied it outright. They were elves, reasonable, surely.

And yet...

It did not help to know that Maedhros would not defend himself if it would come so far. For Fingon needed only to see the way Maedhros listened to the words, how he etched each one of them onto his heart to remember. It was cruel that he subjected himself to such unjust accusations. Even crueller that he believed them.

Fingolfin tolerated no such treatment of his family or advisor and the hateful opposition and their raving died down, if not by letting go of their hate, than by the knowledge that there would come no support nor understanding for such vitriol.

It quieted the voices.

But it did not silence them entirely.

* * *

Their work and obligations found them pulled away from one another; Fingon outside the walls and the gates, between his people and amongst battle and skirmishes. He had not thought violence to be in his nature but could not deny that it suited him well enough. Swords and bows and firm commands all came easier with time, felt as natural as cordial dances and poem recitals.

He rested easier knowing his loved ones --those that did not follow him out into the frays-- safe. Maedhros fended for himself in the court, if not with violence by the sword then by the merciless viper pit that court life had turned into. But they met in the evenings, Maedhros had kept this ritual up dutifully even after his own quarters had been appointed.

A rare day indeed for Fingon then to find himself entirely free of obligations before that. Even so, he was fully prepared to be called back for some emergency, something that required his presence. There was always something they desperately needed him for, it felt like.

Fingon kicked off his boots and discarded his sword, all the while his ears tried to listen if something would not come up.

To test his luck, he sat on his bed and surely this would summon disaster. He sat, uncertain of what to do. A hand wandered across the calloused spots on his palm and his ears strained towards the door. No one came to tell him he was urgently needed.

Perhaps...

He tipped backwards, into the stuffed fabric so unlike thin wool over hard ground, felt the softness of his mattress, and found the world not yet ending. His ears popped and twitched at the absence of horns calling for battle and the his throat felt empty, wanting for the clipped ease of commands. The silence felt brooding and dangerous. His ears wished to flick, to hone in on peril crouching behind him.

It had become hard to think of a world outside of work. No screaming followed and so he rolled onto his side.

He was perhaps pressing his luck shamelessly. But Fingon was not one to shy away halfway through. And so, he napped.

And so it was that Fingon slept and cared not for the world outside, if only for a little while. Instead he dreamed, which felt as if long overdue.

They came easy, the dreams, though he had thought himself terribly out of practice. Half-garbled memories, nearly forgotten thoughts all thrown together. Feasts and festivals enjoyed in Aman long ago now celebrated in the halls of Mithrim. Orcs in his grandfather's palace. Maedhros, radiantly, achingly beautiful, dressed in dancer's garments and spinning along to music lost to memory. Fingon snorted once, rolled over and dove with wild abandon. What old, forgotten joy it was to dream. And what greater joy to know them forgotten later.

* * *

The door opened, which hardly moved Fingon past a cursory blink and a wiggle of the ears. Maedhros entered, his steps so familiar that Fingon knew it with utter certainty. “So quiet, how unlike you,” Maedhros said and this roused Fingon enough to abandon whatever drowsiness clung firmly to his bones. “Were you doing something important? I already chased the minder off for the evening.”

“Don't be silly; I was merely challenging fate,” Fingon replied groggily and yawned. Certainly he did not look any part like Fingon the Valiant at the moment. How thrilling to simply not care, even just for a little while. A few hairs had caught at the corner of his mouth and he pulled it back with stiff fingers before he rubbed his eyes. “I might have won too. I am not certain what constitutes as victory in these situations.”

“At least one of us was productive then.”

“You sell yourself short; Mithrim, all of it, would have burned down twice, at least, without you here.” Which would have been a true shame, considering that it was still so new as to have him get lost in the hallways from time to time.

Maedhros hummed and felt his way into his chair, “I do not live up to my reputation then.” And when the silence stretched on awkwardly and dour, he pulled scarred lips into a smirk, “I'm only kidding; I refrain from needlessly setting things on fire.”

“How boring,” Fingon said and yawned again, shamelessly and without a hand to cover his mouth.

“I compensate by whipping the court into a frenzy at every opportunity, I will have you know.”

“Stagnancy is the death of innovation,” Fingon said. His was not the spirited declaration of Fëanor's oratory, but the words were the same.

“My father rubbed off on you, it seems.”

“I steep my tea swimming freely and unhindered by a tea-egg,” Fingon agreed and rolled over strewn pillows and kicked aside blankets. Somewhere around here was his hairbrush, direly needed. Likely slipped behind his bed where he would have to fumble around for it.

“Yes, he _did_ threaten murder and conflagrations if not, I'm glad you learned.” Maedhros hummed again and flicked his cropped ears. “Which brings us neatly to the earlier part of the conversation and my lack of setting things on fire despite my reputation.”

He grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his brush through, uncaring the the sound of agonized strands being forced apart. “So it seems. Funny how that works; People will think we have nothing else to talk about.”

“Why should anybody care? How many people are in here?” He tilted his head. Nothing fell out of place, everything was cleverly bound and meticulously secured to cover and veil as much of the travesty that was his face without making it look gratuitous. Laboured for effortlessness, all so Maedhros would look a little less disturbing to others. All so he could hide his shame a little easier.

“Also true. Anything I should know? Even if not, I would be happy enough with gossip. I have been out of the loop and rumours do not travel easily past the city walls.”

And so it went. The conversation flew freely and lightly and never edged towards heavy topics. Like damselflies skimming the surface, they danced along the surface, played off of each other naturally and amicably. But Maedhros steered away from things he did not wish to discuss, in varying degrees of subtlety and he never talked of things that worried him.

Fingon remained locked out, with only the illusion of an open door to placate him. To fool him into believing that there was not a barrier between them. Some days, when FIngon could not keep struggling, it was almost easier to believe it.


	23. Be Ready And Keep Ready, You And All Your Hosts That Are Assembled About You

Years ago, nearly coinciding with the completion of Fortress Mithrim, a messenger had made his way into the throne room. He wore the colours of the Fëanorian High Crown, burnt orange, and pinned to his breast a little eight pointed star rendered in silver.

It had marked the first time that the High King had sent more than a short missive or letter, deigned to give more than impersonal demands.

Fingolfin had received him then, with a newly instated Maedhros and Galadriel to either side of him, and there had been talk. The court had been alive with talk, both curious and hostile, as the Fëanorian messenger brought forth a map and on it, carefully marked, the seat of the High King, Maglor's Gap. It sat defiantly near the edge of danger, protected by very little else but shameless defiance. Such was the Fëanorian way.

But what it did, this unannounced arrival, was to open communication if nothing else. Before that, there had been messenger birds, one-sided conversation and resentment quietly broiling along clipped, uneasy letters.

There had been change over the years. Maglor had returned to civil words and less demanding language, though not once did he deign to tour those he called his.

They were still demands, of course. Always demands. For grain, for weapons and for things which Maglor in his kingly dwellings could not easily procure. Maglor had developed a short but rather intense desire for wine but this ceased soon enough and barely two years later Fingolfin's host kept most of their yield for personal use.

Now, years later, did Fingolfin receive this messenger with his newest of missives. This one, at least, was a little more personal, more polite and only twelve years too late. One learned to curb the dissapointment.

Its contents were curious enough for Fingolfin to not simply sign them off and comply. By the time all those concerned had been gathered together, the negotiations had already finished and what was left was to fill everyone in.

Fingon arrived last, hair still lightly damp from when he had been startled out of his bath, and took in the expressions of approaching doom. “What happened?”

“Sit and we will find out,” Galadriel suggested and patted the chair next to her. Fingon obeyed and sandwiched between Galadriel and Maedhros, he watched his father straighten the letter before him. Cousins and siblings all around him, all anticipating.

Fingolfin cleared his throat, ears twitching once, lightly wiggling.

“Get on with it already!” Lalwen called from her spot near the window, voice like the crack of a whip.

“Yes, yes,” Fingolfin conceded and rose from his seat. “Now then. I apologise for having to tear you away from whatever it was you were doing and wish to thank you for your swift arrival regardless.”

He cleared his throat. “Maglor has sent word and even if that is nothing new in itself, the contents warrant discussion.”

“Oh _fantastic_, bugger me,” Angrod jeered and leaned back in his chair. The room mirrored his mood.

“I know. But this is a _request_ this time. I hesitate to call it a plea, but there is a certain... ah-- desperation to it, dare I say.”

Fingon did not turn but instead only heard Maedhros shuffle in his seat a little. Indeed, now they all leaned forward and all ears were on Fingolfin who raised his letter a little higher as if to buffer himself against the stares.

“There are... tensions between the Hosts--”

“What an observation,” Lalwen scoffed darkly.

“Lalwen, please.”

She waved him off and motioned her brother to continue.

Fingolfin cleared his throat, “Very well. His Majesty wishes for continued cooperation and to achieve this, requests aid in organising a Feast of Reuniting. A grand celebration that signifies peace between the Hosts.”

“Easy as that, hm?”

“Lalwen...”

But she was not yet done, “And let me guess, we are, coincidentally, to host this grand little Feast? Maglor's Gap is hardly fit to receive guests that carry no swords. You know the ones: _Civilians_. He wants soldiers but there is not a single place free for others.”

In an effort to keep talks civil and focused, Fingolfin cleared his throat. “I have already selected a space--” Fingolfin tried and paused when Lalwen scoffed loudly and rolled her eyes. But there was no outright refusal forthcoming.

“Harvest has been bountiful,” Galadriel said. “Not enough to waste anything, but enough to --with a little help-- be generous with it.”

“It would not be like the ones back home, nothing so elaborate. But...” Aredhel ran fingers through her hair, “It would be the grandest thing we had since we came ashore.”

“I believe it to be prudent,” Fingolfin agreed. “Merriment and distraction, only for a little while. To let bygones be bygones and to unite us perhaps a little further.”

“Every Noldo who has followed. Every kinsman who wishes to attend. We shall throw our doors open and receive them. And perhaps, for a little while, there will be joy.”

“The Sindar too, if at all possible. Poor form to ignore one's neighbour. A sign of goodwill shall go a long way to ease relations.” Maedhros chimed in.

But not all where inclined to agree. Turgon, ears folded, regarded the assembled, “We would be sitting ducks to the Enemy, out in the open and confined to too little space. It would be massacre, should he decide to attack then. Even if we were not eradicated, losses would be staggering.”

Fingon shook his head. Not because he disagreed about the possibility. “Such fear is _poisonous_, we cannot keep hiding in fear. We must live, not simply cling to survival,” Fingon said. The cowering, the fear. All of it, like smoke upon the lungs. When last had he seen art? Someone creating for the sake of it?

“One cannot celebrate if one is dead,” Finrod agreed darkly with Turgon's concerns.

The mood shifted and uneasy silence fell across the room.

When he turned, Fingolfin had shed some of that softness ever-lingering. It was not gone, but hidden under sudden steel. “You,” his grey eyes regarded them, not unkindly, “my niece and nephews, know most of all the meaning of a worthwhile celebration and the merit of a feast shared in company. I remind you of your father's _Symposium_ and ask you to reconsider.” His gaze wandered to each of them in turn. “We cannot come together unless all will. You have followed across the Ice. I ask for your help once more.”

These words cut deep, Fingon knew and watched his cousins falter. The reminder of Finarfin's joyful celebrations, first started with tiny elves as his only accomplices, raiding the cellars and kitchens for fine foods and drinks to share over grand boasts and then spread out from shore to shore...

It was cruel, perhaps, to wield memory, things held fondly within the softest part of their hearts, so savagely. But sacrifices needed to be made and insisted upon.

Finrod sighed deeply, “A feast then?”

“A feast like this Middle Earth has never seen it,” Galadriel agreed wearily and ran a thump across her temple.

* * *

All according to their aptitude, they worked. Costs and resources needed to be considered, guards, wine, lodging and firewood, a million different things.

Invitations, carefully worded. Missives, letters, messengers to carry them out and to answer questions.

Fingon did what he could but the most he could contribute was to hold still when they fitted his garments fit for a prince to celebrate in.

Untrue, of course, there was hardly a night were he did not crawl tired into his bed. But it was hard not to feel like a hanger on, reaping rewards he had not laboured for.

He watched Maedhros, surrounded by a flock of accountants, quills all a-scribble, mind miles ahead front of them as he calculated costs and working hands with a speed that left them scrambling to keep up. During this grueling scramble to organize, with a thousand things still ahead and days ever fleeting, Maedhros walked upright, shoulders squared and back straightened, towering over all others around him.

In these moments, when Maedhros was fair to himself, Fingon thought him quite... beautiful. Towering and imposing, tall and confident. He did not say so but kept the thought close to his heart. It warmed him, like a tiny flame. It was enough, perhaps.

Fingon, too, worked, though he found the arranging of guards far more suitable to his skills. Aredhel followed behind, covered what Fingon missed. Four eyes saw better than two and neither sibling felt too inclined to waste their time behind stacks of paper and breathe nothing but dust and ink.

“Five months of preparation,” Fingon said as they inspected the wide fields near the crystal clear pools that would become the side of dozens of bonfires and hundreds of tents. Thousands? He had no concept of scale for something like this. No matter, _Eithel Ivrin_ would provide.

“I am in no hurry,” Aredhel said. Her armour glinted in the light, like silver scales. She leaned on her spear and yawned as they watched their soldiers clear away trees and shrubbery. In time, after the festival, nature would reclaim it. But for now, they would borrow it. “Feels strange. These things would always just happen. And now? This is work. Was merriment always work, Fingon?”

Fingon thought for a moment, reminisced about festivals and parties long past. “Suppose so,” he finally shrugged.

She gave a low thrill of dismay, “A shame.”

They stood like this for a little while, brother and sister. Silence, the comfortable kind, between them. “Angrod will head out soon, invitations need sending delivery.”

“Someone has to. And Sindar like him, must be the hair.”

“Must be,” Fingon agreed.

* * *

“I wonder if we should follow a certain theme?” Aegnor asked when Fingon followed him around, taking notes. Someone had to and Fingon felt it prudent to spent a little time with his cousins.

“More than Reuniting?” Fingon asked.

“I know that,” Aegnor said and continued his prowling circles all around the room, “That is not what I mean. What colours do we use? Flowers? Ah, remind me to see how the minstrels are faring, if their instruments are still in working condition. It has been some time.”

Fingon scribbled it down dutifully and they moved on. “I would not know about things like this.”

“No, that's quite alright, I appreciate your listening presence. It helps. Also, I enjoy not having to justify my rambling.”

“Happy to,” Fingon assured and crossed a mistake out to sloppily correct it, the correction smeared little more literate above the smudge.

Aegnor smirked at him and returned to his thoughts, “Now then, we have no opportunity to dye that much fabric in such bold colours but if we sent Angrod out with both the invitations and a polite request for a few bolts of cloth...”

* * *

In the evening, Fingon found himself in his father's study. Not the homely rosewood furnished lodgings of Fingon's childhood home. No beeswax lovingly polished into the table Fingolfin waited at.

But it was better than the wilderness, a little closer to civilised comfort. The tea, too, fas not too far off. A shame Fingon found no rest nor peace in the gentle smell of peppermint and lemon balm.

“Fingon,” Fingolfin said when Fingon paced along the edge of the table and past the chairs. “Sit down, please. Your pacing is driving me to madness.” Miraculously, it was not in the least relaxing to have a frantic son brush past his back like some stalking cat.

Fingon did not stop but only slowed his pacing, “There is still work to do.” The fevered need to do had settled deep in his bones during these last few weeks. Hectic? No, not quite, the word did not feel right? Erratic, perhaps. Sudden bursts of sleepless, ceaseless activity.

“And it will be done in time. I will not hold you from it tomorrow,” Fingolfin said. “Now sit.”

“Turgon just walked by, surely he will need my help.” The fact that his brother had not joined them for tea, instead wearily dragging himself to his room, did not help to set Fingon's mind at ease. The fact that he himself was not yet worn out, that felt hardly just.

“Your brother is finishing up for the night. Everyone has but you. Sit, Fingon.”

Fingon did, if only because his father had grabbed him by the wrist and was refusing to let go. Fingon pulled a little, testing his father's resolve and found it unwavering. Well, fine then.

He sighed and fell into the chair next to his father. “I'm sitting,” he said and sounded only a little petulant.

“Good boy, there we are,” Fingolfin said and let go of Fingon's wrist. Fingon knew better than to try and flee. Tea was poured and there would be no escape until it was gone.

“I am very proud of you,” Fingolfin looked at him over the rim of his cup and his fingers made little, tapping _tink tink _noises as he drummed his fingernails against the burned clay. “All of you. But I felt a personal expression of gratitude in order.” Grey eyes wandered to the other addition on the table, “Biscuit?”

They smelled wonderfully buttery, Fingon chewed three at once, absent-minded, and washed it down with tea. “Thank you,” and after a moment, “Were those measured out?” he asked when the plate was nearly empty. Nothing would have been quite as inconsiderate as eating all the treats meant for tea for those who would follow, after all.

“No, there are plenty left over, I anticipated enthusiasm,” Fingolfin said. He himself seemed rather more partial toward tea but Fingon would hardly be cross with him for that. “And I am glad to see that I was proven right.”

And within this comfort and ease, as he was wont to do, Fingolfin struck like some hidden mantis. “Now tell me what bothers you. And don't think about lying to me.”

Fingon did not sigh but wished to and dug his mind for something to say. Nothing truly bothered him, nothing that could be easily fixed in any case. The world was still dark and Maedhros was still blind. What could he ever do to right this? Nothing. He could only learn to live with it. 

But his father would only worry if he heard him talk so drearily. Fingon spun a few tales about uneasy dreams, not entirely untrue, and vague notions of homesickness. None of it was lied, but it was also not what sat so heavy upon his heart.

Fingolfin nodded along, attempted to bring comfort and understanding and wished him a good night when Fingon retreated towards his own bed.

There was, after all, work to do in the morning. There always was.


	24. You Will Know The Truth, And The Truth Will Set You Free

Nights, those with a full moon illuminating his room left him in a contemplative mood, Fingolfin found. A nervous restlessness had gripped at him these last few weeks, though that could have been very well the knowledge of upcoming events. Being Host and Master of Ceremonies, that was certainly daunting. This was not to be the cheerful, improvised little celebrations that required nothing more than a few elves willing to come together to amuse themselves.

This had required planning, endless considering of materials, space and implications.

Lalwen had expressed, firmly and very insistingly, that she would not save her brother from unwanted duties, darling little sister that she was. A shame, she would have been much more fitting for the role and Fingolfin would not have objected to it any.

Of all his siblings, Fingolfin had been the least remarkable one. He had no quarrels nor illusions about this and in truth the knowledge had suited him just fine. To stay a little off to the side as his siblings dazzled those who would turn towards the royal family.

Fingolfin had never minded that. Some in his family would have wilted at the lack of attention, rightfully deserved attention for feats of awe-inspiring genius, certainly. Who could have competed with Finarfin and his endless charisma, with Findis and her wit? It was hard to compare oneself to his siblings.

Had he done so, should he have tried and competed, envy would have left him bitter.

Instead, it had left him plenty of time to work in the background. He had been free to pull at strings undisturbed.

Things had changed, of course. Life was no longer innocently blissful, and the skies turned dark far too often. True leadership had not come easy to him though if he had not tried his hardest to conceal this. What was a king uncertain in his role?

He could no longer plot in peace, take his time, away from prying eyes, to file his plans to meticulous perfection. Now all was action and frenetic reaction whilst always perfectly poised and _always_ on display to all.

It had not come easy but Fingolfin had had little choice but to adapt. Such was the fate of the strange Middle Earth; Adapt, or die.

In some way, so it felt in his darkest of starless moments, it felt as if they had never left the Ice.

He turned from the balcony, away from feeble candlelights, tiny islands of illumination beating back the darkness, and returned to his desk. The curtains had been tied back and he left them so, no desire to banish the breeze stirring outside.

His fingers brushed past paper, leafed through a stack of them, still in desperate need of sorting out. That was fine. Here, he had the time for it. All the time he needed; Far preferred over spontaneous decisions, made in the heat of momentary thought.

Not that such an approach was wrong or because where would Maedhros and indeed all of them be if Fingon had not decided in less than a heartbeat to risk his life for him?

In his darkest dreams, Fingolfin saw visions of unrealized civil war, the Hosts turned against each other as the Enemy approached from a smouldering horizon.

Yes, Fingon and his snap decisions...

Fingon, and Maedhros...

Fingolfin was not blind to their antics. It was horribly obvious. Painfully so. There had been days where Fingolfin had contemplated, sincerely, to lock them in the same room until this matter was sorted out.

He took no great joy in seeing suffering, even if it was the pining sort of young love not yet realized. Painfully innocent, but painful nonetheless. If he could, he would have spared them such needless, self-inflicted suffering. If they had not decided to cling tightly to it, he would have.

Unfortunately, both Fingon and Maedhros were quite content wallowing quietly in their misery, too accustomed to their darkness to take a chance for the possibilities awaiting. Too overt and they would sense his well meaning intentions. They were both too perceptive when it came to the wrong things, evidently. Then there would be denial and lambasting and someone would mope for a week.

Fingolfin had watched them deny and rationalise their pining, for what else was this confused devotion and dancing around each other, always self-depreceating, always longing always refusing to see what was right on front of them. How was one supposed to stand idly by and watch this flailing? All he could offer in the way of help, all he could do, was to nudge them along, steal away a bit of burden here and there when he could, never too much and let them sort out the rest.

He wished only for a little happiness for his family. The Valar, if they still listened and had not yet turned away, only knew that they could use a little light-heartedness these days.

As if to insult him even further, Fingolfin found that he was out of tea as well.

Sighing, he made towards the kitchen to brew another pot. The night was young yet, after all, and Fingolfin had no intention of braving it without a little aid fortifying him.

* * *

Part of him regretted the fact that he had arrived just in time to witness the aftermath without having seen anything that might have provided context to what lay before him.

A shattered jar of preserves, contents spilled and then forgotten, half covered with a napkin. Sugar or salt, hard to tell, covered part of the counter and every single cupboard had been pulled open. In the middle of entire mess stood Maedhros, ears flat against russet curls and shame-faced. A loaf of bread and a knife lay in front of him.

But he had made tea. This rendered all else unimportant and Fingolfin cut off his nephew's attempt at an explanation.

“No, don't. I do not wish to hear it. Sit down,” he said and Maedhros obeyed.

Fingolfin, already planning to requisition the tea for his own purposes. He could have, of course, simply stolen the thing and run for the hills but such a thing was both beneath him as well as monstrously cruel. So, a compromise then.

Maedhros, still looking mortified, hands fussing at the edges of his blindfold and brushing away strands of hair. He looked very much like a child if one disregarded the height.

“I am simply going to assume you were making toast?” Because toast, as well as tea, was just about the extend Fingolfin managed when it came to culinary prowess .

Maedhros splayed his ears and tried to wipe away the blush still lingering on his face. “I—Yes. Just a snack.”

“Mhm,” Fingolfin hummed. With this, at least, he could fully relate with the desire for a bite to nibble on during late work. Also, tea. The tea was most important. “Let me.”

“You don't have to--” Maedhros tried but remained sitting.

Fingolfin was not about to remind his nephew about the splattered massacre on the floor but remained firm in his decision and grabbed the loaf of rye to cut generous slices.

“All else that awaits me is work, I might as well.” Not that truly minded the endless bureaucracy, truly not. But his mind had wandered away from quills and papers and neatly written columns and seemed not the least bit inclined to come back to any semblance of concentration.

Toast it would be then. Toast, tea and conversation, if his nephew could be convinced to engage in some talk strictly turned away from king and advisor and instead as family did.

“Do you often wander the halls in search of food so late in the night? Without Fingon even?” Fingolfin remembered the raids in the kitchens, spurned by Finarfin and his endless desire for merriment and mischief.

Maedhros shook his head, “I was not about to wake him for my amusement.”

“Oh? The last time I came here in the night to raid the kitchen of tea leaves, Fingon said something similar.”

Maedhros changed his angle of reasoning, “I will not demean him by having him serve me.”

“Surely not, you are wholly capable of doing it yourself; You made the tea after all.” Because if Maedhros decided to stop being sorry for himself it was hard to tell that he was hindered much at all. Certainly, some things had become difficult and not everything was possible to do any longer.

But Maedhros tended to diminish himself to even greater degrees than necessary. Maedhros was cruel to himself and allowed none to help him. Safe one.

Maedhros frowned, or rather, his face pinched for a moment and he shook his head. He reminded Fingolfin of a rather stubborn child. “That is different.” How exactly he came to such a conclusion, the way his thoughts had twisted to reach such insights, he did not elaborate.

“...I shall take your word for it.” Fingolfin tapped at the bread and found it crisp and hot. Good enough, he dared not test his luck and nudged the bread off the hot stone. Condiments were found after a little rummaging and he took the time to close the cupboards as he passed.

Maedhros, with equal care, felt around the edge of his bread, gathered it up and bit. He motioned to the teapot merrily steaming to itself. “Tea?”

“Always,” Fingolfin agreed and watched Maedhros pour them both tea with slow, measured motions. His ears flicked, intently listening at the sound of tea filling the cups and stopped just a moment later than Fingolfin himself would have.

* * *

“I went over the cordial selection,” Maedhros said when Fingolfin had cleaned up the last of the mess on the floor and the sugar had been wiped away. Maedhros, perhaps feeling obligated to engage in conversation, cleared his throat, “I was surprised the amount of _miruvor_ would be so little.” He bit, chewed thoughtfully and continued, “Is there a reason? Because I went over the forms only today and there is no time in getting more if this was a mistake.”

Fingolfin waved him off and remembered shortly after that further explanation was needed to make Maedhros aware of his gesture. “No, fully intentional, we compensated the numbers with honey wine. Miruvor will not be popular with the Second Host, I don't think.”

Maedhros' ears moved, flicked a little, and he cocked his head, “Why would that be?” And in the next moment, mortified, he came to the answer himself, if the way he slumped away a little was any indication. “...Oh...”

What does one take on a journey across unforgiving wasteland when all other means are exhausted? _Lembas_, of course. The last they shall ever have from Aman. And _miruvor_, for there shall be very little in the way of rest for thirty years. And if one eats nothing but _lembas_ and raw seal meat, drinks nothing but an ever dwindling supply of _miruvor_ that once carried with it the taste of summer and is now only a means to an end... Will there ever be any pleasure found in it again?

Fingolfin did not sigh, but he did nothing to restrain the frown that settled on his features for a moment. But this, too, passed. “Worry not. You could not have known.” Fingolfin said but the damage was already done.

“Mhm...” Maedhros muttered and fumbled around for his teacup.

Fingolfin watched him and considered the sharp drop his own mood had suffered at the memories. He took no joy in his nephew's discomfort but there was precious little to do now. The implications stood steadfast and looming and no amount of reassurance to the contrary would change that.

They sat like that for a while and Fingolfin contemplated his own failings. How easy it was to come apart still. Distressing.

Outside of his obligations, where Maedhros would whisper into his king's ear, there was very little in the way of conversation and this awkwardness drove the chasm between them home even keener.

It had not always been so, Fingolfin contemplated quietly. He remembered a not quite tiny nephew trying to pawn his older brother off on him. And later, a friend to Fingon. The first and truest one and therefore he had been valued highly.

There was very little left of that now, it seemed. Perhaps some semblance of his nephew remained, buried under oaths and hurt too deep to truly grasp. Who knew?

It would not be Fingolfin who would open the gates to whatever it was Maedhros so firmly kept locked away, he knew that with unshakable certainty. But Fingolfin had paved the way for someone else to come and batter down the walls. All that was left was to wait. To wait and to endure.

Maedhros, deeply ashamed or perhaps deeply tired, rose from his seat. Fingolfin saw him mumble to himself for a short moment and his fingers pulled and pinched at his blindfold. “Thank you for the food.” Maedhros turned, “And the company.”

“I did not mean to open wounds, nephew. That was tactless and crass.”

“I have no right to complain, it was not me who braved the Ice,” Maedhros smiled weakly, “I came here by boat and the first night was quite warm, I assure you... A pleasant night, uncle.”

“Sleep well.” Fingolfin watched him leave and the prospect of having the rest of the teapot for himself was not as thrilling as it might have been just a short while ago. Thoughtless things had been blurted, meanings and implications not considered enough.

Sighing, grabbing for the pot to retreat back into his quarters, Fingolfin left. There was still work to do after all. Work best done alone.


	25. Let Us Therefore Celebrate

When the guests arrived, --few at first, hesitant and halting, in great waves at last-- Fingolfin had gathered his children and nephews around himself and distributed his orders. They were to be the very last during these celebrations, none of them would be called on again until everything had wrapped up. Or until something important caught on fire, one never knew with Fëanorians.

“Go,” Fingolfin said and looked very much the part of regent commanding those before him. He looked terribly serious indeed, with the gold on his brow and his furred cape framing his shoulders. “And have fun.”

There had been attempts, well-meaning ones, made to offer assistance, for surely it was quite unjust to leave Fingolfin to suffer whilst they went off to potter about, frolicking carelessly. Not to mention, once the Fëanorians arrived, certainly by then...

Fingolfin had turned a little, regarded his sister who had smirked back at him and said, “Encourage them, to have fun, if you would, Lalwen?”

No one wanted to take him up on the bluff. The wild, panicked flight that ensued, with Finwions fleeing in every direction like startled birds, ensued that Fingon did not see any of them for a good while after.

There was, after all, running to be done.

* * *

Finrod who had wandered his merry way out of the woods first, without a care, had not even returned from Eithel Ivrin, instead he camped outside. He had been spared the threat of an aunt chasing behind him and therefore all was well in the world. As well as the world could be.

And it was from his waxed canvas tent that he called out to Fingon who strolled by, caught up with rubbernecking.

Strange sights and smells, sounds and words in this part of the festival grounds. Horses snorted curiously at him, elves glanced in much the same way.

“Could you look any more out of place, Fingon?” Finrod called, laughed and clapped Fingon on the shoulder once in reach with all the vigour of one who made up in lost time.

“I can certainly try,” Fingon said and tried to shrug the aching tingling out of his back without looking suspicious. “You could have come and said hello.”

“Hello, Fingon.”

“Muttonhead,” Fingon said. “How many did you bring? I did not even see them arrive and suddenly they are all here.”

“They do that, sneaky Sindar all of them. They just wander in without you knowing and suddenly you cannot get rid of them. They'll be in your tent, in your family tree and in your luggage rifling through your keepsakes. Not that I object to it, mind. It's the principal of the matter.”

“Ah,” Fingon acknowledged. “Are there any in your tent now, by chance?”

Finrod flashed him a conspiring smirk,the kind that dared to join in on mischief, “Curious?”

“A little.”

Finrod laughed and Fingon's shoulder was not spared. “If you must now, there are none. For now. I will have some to introduce to you, if you want, later.”

“I would, if you are offering.”

Finrod nodded. “Glad for it, they are eager to meet you.”

“Why?”  
  
“Because one has to talk about something on the road.” Finrod said. He brushed fingers through his golden hair and returned the shimmering tresses back behind his ear. “Might as well talk about you and your eagle.”

Sensing dreadful things that involved far too many colourful descriptors of hair and capes waving heroically in the wind, Fingon raised an eyebrow. “And exactly _what_ have you been telling them? Because Torontor was not mine to claim.”

“Only good things, I promise you. All true as well. They are avid listeners, very fond of bold tales. Might you dazzle them with heroic accounts of Fingon the Valiant later?”

“Valar...”

Finrod clapped him again, the third and no less painful time. “You should be proud,” he laughed. “We need heroes in times like these, you know?”

“They already have you to dazzle them,” Fingon said.

“Mh... It's the hair,” Finrod agreed brightly. “Say, I have not seen anyone except you ever since I came back. Did something happen?”

“Aunt Lalwen, mostly.”

“Ah,” Finrod said. “Fingon, far be it from me to end a pleasant conversation but I do need to prepare for the festivities still.”

Fingon parted ways with him then, for there was indeed still something, namely himself, left to change.

* * *

On his way back to his quarters, before he would take up temporary residence in a tent, Fingon took note of the proceedings. The onslaught of guests, it seemed, could not be stopped. Had there always been so many Noldor in these lands?

There would be sorting, sifting, shuffling about of resources. Everything needed to be in order, to make things progress smoothly. But they had planned for that, Fingon had seen and contributed to the numbers. In this prospect, small as it may be in the grand scheme of things, they would not need to worry. A luxury. The rule of scarcity demanded, therefore, that these days of feasting and festival be spend merrily.

He had exactly enough time to wonder just what poor idiot was to be the victim of the flock that came barreling down the hallway with wild abandon. Just enough to not be able to run. Because the idiot was him, of course.

“My prince, there you are!” came the cry and away Fingon was dragged before he had even truly understood his own predicament. The only reason they did not simply lift him up to whisk him away faster was the fact that there were appearances to be kept.

“When we were told you had already left... Highness, you missed your bath.”

“I bathed already,” Fingon protested. The sort of desperate last call that went unheeded, naturally.

No one would have any of it. “That is by _far_ not enough, you are hardly made presentable. You cannot be expected to appear in front of guests like this.” Such were the words that led Fingon to his doom.

* * *

If this was anything what his sister's cat had felt like when someone had dragged him off to be bathed, then Fingon had just learned deep sympathy.

There was struggling on Fingon's side, mostly, because there was a point when there were too many servants fussing about and this point had been approached, reached and wildly overshot. Protest had to be expressed clearly and yet no one cared.

Until, finally and at last, it was over. Even as he trudged back, free from foam and scrubbing brushes, he was toweled dry and herded in front of his vanity.

Fingon found himself dazed and under the mercy of those who had made it their apparent goal to finish him faster than it took to boil an egg.

At least they took care when they carefully clipped his hair until all was neat and tidy once more. Behind him, just out of sight had there not been the mirror, another servant laid out the robes selected for him. Brushes were lined up, fine scents to work into his hair, oils to make it pristine. And then, something else. A spool, golden thread wrapped tightly around it.

“Did you go through my things?” Fingon asked, for something had to fill the silence and nothing else came to mind.

“No, highness. Your father, His Majesty, had them brought and was insistent that you wear them.”

Fingon blinked and was not quite certain what else to do beyond that. He... had not worn gold for-- the true number eluded him. Fifty years? It sounded correct and yet wrong all the same.

He had loved his braids. The one exemption to his vanity when all else had never mattered. But he had had not the heart for it. To revel in finery when the world was dark and cruel and uncertain? Indulge when so many could not.

Behind him, unheeding to Fingon's existential dilemma, the servants had begun to brush his hair. Only lightly damp, the curls had already begun to take hold once more, indomitably and forever straining against ribbon and bands that sought to tame them.

It had only ever been braids, dozens, to keep them in order. And within them, glittering like ore unearthed from dark stone, his gold.

Had it not been an order? Had the choice not been made for him? Fingon found that he was not broken up about this. Instead, he cleared his throat, “Who am I to deny my king's wishes?” Was it cowardly to be glad that he did not have to choose, even something as mundane as this? It did not matter. Not now.

When Fingon's hair had been brushed to a glimmering sheen, treated with oils procured from somewhere Fingon had not seen, they unrolled the golden thread.

* * *

Evidently, he had not been the only one ambushed and groomed without mercy. In a different way, there was no one who would subject Maedhros to the kind of bathing Fingon had just endured. Not if they wished to live.

Maedhros waited at the end of the hall, looking lost. Well, no, not quite. Aimless? More like it and it sounded kinder.

His hair gleamed like bronze and flame, if one was so poetically inclined, trimmed to even length and treated for softness. It framed the blindfold –was it appropriate to name it so?-- embroidered with vines and other pleasing things. If anything, scars and all, Maedhros looked terribly comely.

Fingon swallowed, found his mouth dry and repeated the motion. Then, clearing his throat, he called out, “Have you been waiting long?”

Maedhros hummed and turned a little more towards Fingon, “It might be presumptuous, but I had hoped to someone with me. I already send Lastdínen off to get drunk and therefore I find myself without an aid for a time.”

“If you will not grudge me, I find myself free this evening and the coming days.” Feeling playful, Fingon pulled at Maedhros hand to guide him to his hair. “Well?”

Maedhros wiggled his ears, perhaps confused for a moment. But recognition came soon enough and with it, however restrained, delight. “Your _braids_.” He laughed and there was no guard up for that one, none at all. “I am glad; Something was missing without them.”

He did not pull back and instead rolled one of Fingon's tresses between his fingers. “Unearthed the gold at last, then? I was already worried you had lost it somewhere.”

Pivoting restless ears at the sensation of his own hair brushing against them, Fingon chuckled, “I did, most likely when we moved. These are new. With gold from these parts.”

“It is put to good use,” Maedhros decided at last and then his hands _did_ retreat, mindful and slow, but leaving all the same.

Fingon found himself sobered at their absence but smiled all the wider for Maedhros, “I do hope so. You are comely as well.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Maedhros said but smirked. He turned a little, moved his ears as if listening to something far away. In the distance, there was bustling and the beginnings of festivities. “Shall we? They will only get livelier from here on out.” He held out an arm for Fingon who took it, looping his own arm around it.

Together they went out to mingle. That had been, after all, an order.

* * *

They talked, it was quite inevitable when walking so close together. Not that Fingon minded. They talked about this and that; Mostly about nothing. And all the while, things got livelier, until finally they found themselves emersed in the sensation of so many elves.

More than once, someone called out to Fingon, greetings and gratitude, words or perhaps only a hand quickly pressed over a heart.

It was easy to pick out the Sindar, for none of them acknowledged Fingon with the same worshipful awe. Neither did they waste a glower or showed apprehension at Maedhros. None knew them and the selective anonymity was as strange as it was exciting.

Two of them, still in their dusty travelling clothes, weapons discarded, came around one of the tents, that there was no bowing nor scraping. Instead, they regarded Fingon curious and had enough presence of mind to not recoil from Maedhros. Instead, they spoke, lilting words that sounded familiar but strange all the same. The inflection, the tone, friendly. But Fingon understood barely anything.

Maedhros, tilted his head and pressed fingers to his heart before replying in kind. Fingon, not to be outdone, mumbling something approximating the garbled half-words that had managed to get lodged in his head. It did not amount to much.

Both Sindar laughed lightly, brightly, bowed briefly and left, fully preoccupied with their own business. Neither had taken offence to Fingon's spluttering blunder and perhaps that should have been enough. It did nothing to quell the hot shame that seemed adamant in trying to boil his ears.

“I just remembered, I am terrible at learning new languages,” Fingon said when they were alone again. “I have not the faintest what I said myself.”

“I thought you did quite well, what with the frankly creative invention of words,” Maedhros said and grinned. Shameless.

Fingon blushed, hot enough to warm the tips of his ears. “Hush you,” Fingon cried and nudged at Maedhros in an attempt to silence his terrible cousin.

No such luck. “Only a true master of the craft might invent new words on the fly, I should know.”

“You are absolutely horrible!”

“I am, you should know by now—Come now don't run away,” Maedhros said when Fingon wiggled about at his side. A scarecrow he might be, never bothered to regain his old strength, but when Maedhros truly set his mind to it, there was no escape. “You have only yourself to blame, don't think I don't know that you slacked off.”

Indignant now, “You can hardly expect me to be quizzed on my vocabulary whilst I am out in the field, can you?”

“Don't be huffy with me, I am not here to tell you what to do.” Even as he spoke, Maedhros sniffed at the air, lips lightly parted and ears curiously wiggling. “Honey braised meat, delightful,” he said and exhaled the scent that sat in his nose. He turned his head, “Does food count as amusement?”

“Since when did it not?”

“You _did_ witness me at your table, did you not? Even I would hesitate to call that eating. Chaos, yes. An unadulterated mess, perhaps. Amusement? Not quite.”

Fingon laughed, a short, amused 'Ha' of a laugh. “Clearly you cannot appreciate entertainment when he mauls the spinach quiche right in front of me, a shame.”

“It was a good quiche...” Maedhros sighed. “Honey braised meat first?” he asked and sounded hopeful.

“Lead on, then, I trust your nose.”

* * *

Honey was the great unifier in a world where elves could not yet easily understand one another. The only gold Fingon priced higher than the one in his hair. He would not have been the only one.

Was it, then, not the most sensible thing to put it into everything, if it was loved so dearly, priced so highly? Yes, very sensible. Sauces and glazes, for meat and pastries and vegetables. Naturally. Those that had taken control over this particular cooking fire thought alike. Everything carried with it the mellowed sweetness of it.

“This one's not from our bee keepers,” Maedhros decided halfway through his honey glazed carrots. For the meat there had been no time to talk and pontificate over origins of the ingredients. He chewed thoughtfully, speared another and held it out to Fingon. “Less piney.”

“So it is,” Fingon said when he had plucked the carrot off. “I like it.”

“Mhm...” Maedhros agreed. From somewhere, music was played. They observed elves around them, neither one speaking for a moment. “I feel like mingling.”

Fingon pushed his plate away, the last bit of sauce wiped away with a bit of bread. “Right now?”

Groaning, Maedhros leaned back, “In a moment; I am stuffed to the rafters.”

Fingon nodded, “I am not in a hurry.” Hurrying was not fun and therefore not permitted, after all. “If you wish, Finrod offered to introduce us.”

“Another try then? With the verbal flailing and all?”

“Hush, you will speak and I will nod and smile.”

“Is that how it is?” Maedhros asked.

Slyly, Fingon clicked his tongue as if dismissing Maedhros, “Why do you think I returned for you in the halls?”

“Ah, purely pragmatic reasons?”

Fingon laughed and rose to stretch. Lazy fullness clung to him, but now was still the time to shake it off and continue on for a while. Doubtlessly, that would change later, “The very best of reasons.”

“Liar, since when have you been pragmatic, valiant one?” Maedhros asked.

“Hush. Instead, let's roll you towards conversation.”

“As my prince wishes and commands,” Maedhros conceded and heaved himself to his feet.

“Commanding is no fun,” Fingon said and searched for Maedhros' arm.


	26. Casting All Your Anxieties On Him, Because He Cares For You

“Come along, let us sit somewhere. No sense in standing around,” Finrod said when they met once more. Evening had crept along like a maiden sneaking into a dancehall. Music now sounded everywhere, almost the lilting tones that invited to dance but not just yet. Festivity was nearly upon them and the mood had grown in this anticipation.

Finrod had been done up as well, perhaps not in the way Fingon had endured, but no travel dust nor dirt remained. Instead his ears had been carefully fitted with golden jewellery that hugged at the helix; To draw attention to the perfect shape of them, the comely curve and the pointed tips he prided himself in. As he flicked his ears, they glittered in the waning light.

There was a long table and benches Finrod shooed them to. “Handsome the two of you look,” he commented and grinned at Fingon's glower. “I did not think you had it in you, Fingon,” he smiled and evaded Fingon's swipe.

“As well as I should, I suffered greatly to look like this,” Fingon said and sniffed an exaggerated snort before joining in on Finrod's fun. Maedhros hummed, felt around with his free hand until he found the edge of the table and continued on mapping out the seating area.

They pestered each other in the carefree manner of friends until Maedhros slipped onto the bench and pulled Fingon down to join him. “There we are and everyone is still alive.”

“Wonderful. Wait a moment, I shall fetch them,” Finrod promised and off he was trough shortened grass, trailing two glinting points of glittering gold with him.

Someone approached and upturned the cups that had been placed along the table to pour them wine. Maedhros pivoted his ears but did not turn. He faced firmly forwards and made to fuss with his bandages. “Ah...” The blindfold sat smooth and flawless over his eyes, nothing had slipped, no bandages could chaff against one another.

“Is the blindfold troubling you? Does the embroidery chaff?” Fingon asked gently, so no one would hear. He offered thanks to the elf and turned back to Maedhros.

Maedhros shook his head, patted his fingertips carefully along the fabric and returned his hands into his lap, “Not at all. Just force of habit. It feels as if it does not cover as it should.”

With a playful nudge, Fingon brushed his shoulder against Maedhros' arm and smiled, “It's fine, you do look fetching, you know. Who knows, perhaps it will become fashion.”

Maedhros laughed, nearly whinnied at the thought, “As if.” Instead of fumbling further with things that should perhaps be left alone, he felt around the table for his cup and sniffed at the wine before tasting at it.

* * *

Figures approached, stalking silently through the grass like flittering specters. Skittish, though Fingon could not blame them for their apprehension. Yet Finrod lured them in all the same and had them seated presently. And then Fingon and Maedhros found themselves surrounded by all manner of Sindar elves, familiar and yet strange.

There were differences if one cared to find them. Their eyes bore colours Fingon had never seen gazing at him before. Certainly, there was the same blue Finrod had, like sky and sea and cornflowers. But none of them like Mae-- like Fingon's grey ones.

Instead there was almost golden hazel-honey, brown like polished oak and one blinked curiously at him with fern green eyes that were cast away bashfully when Fingon found them.

“I could have sworn I had two more...” Finrod mused and turned to the assembled Sindar. Words were exchanged, eyes were rolled and Finrod turned back again, smiling just as brightly as he had before.

“So! It appears my sister snatched one on his way and therefore Oropher gets lost to his own whims inevitably.” He tapped his fingers together and smiled. “No matter, I will introduce royalty later, how does that sound? These ones are nice too. Artisans, scholars, guards, the whole lot.”

“Lovely, “Maedhros said.

Finrod cleared his throat, “From the top then?”

“Whenever you are ready,” Fingon agreed.

* * *

“Daeron,” Finrod began and there was the sound of someone pushing his chair back, perhaps to rise in greeting. “Royal Loremaster, I'll leave the rest up to him.”

“Greetings,” Daeron, with his introduction finished, said. “I am not certain my talents as loremaster will be needed nor useful for celebrations however.”

“No one needs to prove their worth here, I am certain.” Maedhros said. “You are a minstrel too? A singer?”

“Why, yes--” there was shuffling, something wooden caught briefly at the edge of the table as it was hastily drawn forth. “I have brought my lyre, though I... ah, suppose you cannot see it.” Daeron coughed, “I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken. You are here to play then, I assume?”

“Loudly and proudly,” someone who had not yet introduced himself yet said. Fingon, a little behind on the conversation and Finrod quietly murmured translations to him, snorted a moment later in polite amusement.

“I was told the greatest bard of the Noldor attends and therefore I am here to take them up on the challenge. I have a reputation to defend.”

“He will be thrilled for the competition, I am sure,” Maedhros said.

There was momentary silence. Then, as an afterthought, Daeron cleared his throat. “This is Mablung, before I forget,” he said and the sound of someone strumming their fingers along strings sounded once before fading.

“Marchwarden,” Mablung clarified gruffly. “Also, bodyguard and babysitter for this one, it appears. Who knows if we would have ever arrived if no one pulled you by your sleeve, minstrel.”

“How you would even dare suggest such a thing, Mablung,” Daeron exclaimed. There were sounds of amusement around the table and even as Daeron bid them silence they would not vanish at once.

* * *

Half the table and their introductions Fingon managed, with Finrod dutifully translating at his side, until he gave up. It was tiring to listen to so many voices all sitting in his ear as he tried to make sense of one half and keep up with Finrod's translation.

Maedhros conversed easily and glowed under relaxed, unguarded conversation. He listened attentively and joked in return, something to each one of them. Elves around the table chattered and looked perfectly at ease, far from what FIngon felt.

Fingon was glad, of course. Endlessly glad. That Maedhros was happy and at ease.

It made the faint envy all the more noticeable as it scratched deep in his chest like a greasy rat. An ugly, dirty feeling. When had Maedhros been so free and boisterous with him? What did he lack that Maedhros found in them?

Those were dark and troubling things to ponder, helpful to no one. Least of all himself. It was not his right to demand Maedhros' attention solely for himself. To make his happiness depending on Fingon's efforts alone.

Feigning restlessness, he excused himself. Finrod nudged him, oblivious to the troubled thoughts brewing behind Fingon's ears until they wished to press flat against his head. Instead his cousin bid him farewell and Maedhros, surprised, followed a moment later with his own.

He could not out think these things that plagued his thoughts. Perhaps he could walk them off.

* * *

Tents had nearly vanished behind him, as had the dancing grounds and cooking fires. Soft light and softer music beckoned him back into the fold, to search for distraction in company or drink or perhaps both if one was truly desperate.

But it was hard to ponder with a head swimming in alcohol and harder still to mope when dancing. And so he wandered further into the woods and among the crystal pools.

Water murmured, undisturbed by Fingon's presence, whether he walked or rested near one of the countless springs. Clear as glass and faintly tasting of minerals, Fingon needed only to cup his hands to quench his thirst.

The only company was a single tree that stood out a little more than its brethren, like some brave soldier edging out into unknown territory whilst others stood clumped together, shaking quietly in the breeze.

Fingon looked out onto the countless pools. He was not in the mood to rejoin the festivities, the laughter, the jokes. Unfortunately, he found no distraction here at the pools either. What was Maedhros doing now, he wondered, which was as unproductive a thought as it was discouraging. What had chased Fingon away in the first place? Jealousy? Despondent sulking?

Fingon eased himself into the dewy grass, propped his elbows on his knees and sighed. His braids felt heavy and knotted, unused to their weight after so long. He felt like a child who had rifled through his father's wardrobe.

* * *

There was a quiet splash, a bit of movement. Fingon turned, ears raised and legs tense, ready to spring. There had only been so many times he had been naïve to danger that lurked in ever waiting ambush and these lands favoured those that learned quickly.

It was no threat that had crept up on him, which was fortuitous in every sense of the word. Even if Fingon was busy trying to puzzle out if he was still in the mood for frolicking, he would not have wished the whole celebration to be spoiled by having someone attack them now.

Next to him, in the water, an elf had broken through the surface like an otter, hair slick from water. They stared at one another, both evidently had not expected to meet another here, least of all like this.

“Err...” Which, as far as rousing speeches and introductions went was one of Fingon's finer ones. Not that there was much protocol in the way of how one was to greet and stranger who had been disturbed in his nightly swim.

“_Suilad_,” the elf in the pool greeted, eyes bright as moonlight caught in them and hands braced on the marshy earth to pull himself up. He reached out, to find purchase in the grass.

Fingon offered him his hand before he could think better about it and presented with such choices, the elf gladly forsook the staining grass to grasp for him.

And then Fingon had a naked elf standing in front of him. Only one of them seemed to be fazed by this and it was not the Sindar who tittered at Fingon's flushed face. Instead, he grasped for his long hair, bunched it up and wrung it out. “_Mae govannen!_” he said, “_Oropher i eneth nín. Man eneth lín?_” Perhaps to make polite conversation while he brought himself into order, token politeness to not leave the one who had fished him out standing dumbfounded.

Fingon blinked once, firmly. He had understood the greeting at least and one out of three was... not ideal but certainly better than nothing. And at least with this, their first exchange, he could somewhat guess. The name, if he was not utterly mistaken, he had gathered.

“Fingon?” Fingon tried and forced his ears to remain confidently relaxed instead of bringing them to bear against his head.

“Fingon!” Oropher called, delighted. He stroked damp, still sodden tresses behind his ear and continued in lilting words, “A pleasure.”

“Oh, you speak quenya,” Fingon noted. He had not truly considered that there would be those with interest in learning the language of those who had come from beyond the seas.

“Little of it,” Oropher said when after a moment he had translated and laughed once more. “I try.”

“That is all one can ask,” Fingon admitted, for what else could he have said? Certainly he could not have demanded perfect mastery when he himself was still floundering.

Oropher smiled, turned and wandered away to search for his belongings. Fingon carefully kept his gaze turned away. He listened to the sound of fabric unfurling, Under moonlight, he looked like polished ivory and when he caught Fingon's gaze lingering, glancing over his shoulder, he tittered again.

"I did not mean--!"

"Flatter," Oropher chimed and returned to rifling through his things.

“Well?” When Oropher turned, bits and pieces of him glittered and shone. Not all of it was jewelry, even the silks shimmered under silver light. The moon did not offer the same light that the Trees had, only pale imitation. Fingon, with so little to work with, could not tell the exact colour, only narrow it something cheerful. Green perhaps? Yellow? “How do you find me?”

“Fine enough to dance in,” Fingon answered honestly. These clothes would have never been useful for anything but whimsy dances and frolicking fun. Nothing suited for the road in any case.

“_Elvain_,” Oropher declared and twirled around once and Fingon saw that he had managed to braid his hair as well. “Shall we?”

With comprehension limping a few paces behind their conversation, Fingon gave a confused hum. “Shall we what?” No wonder he had never been asked to lead a debate when he had been younger. Not that he had forgotten, but it did not much hurt to be reminded. Much.

Oropher pointed towards the tents and the warm light beckoning them.

And since Fingon could hardly leave an esteemed guest to wander alone through the darkness, he followed dutifully.

* * *

They talked, awkwardly, about all manner of things. Usually the topic did not extend far into deeper matter and could only scratch at the surface before one of them could not longer follow. But Fingon did not stop nor allow silence to grow between them and Oropher did not lack behind in enthusiasm.

And just like that, without much fanfare, he had been dragged back into the fold, to bask in warmth and company. He was not meant to mope, it appeared. So in thought, he blinked stupefied when Oropher continued with his explanation and whatever hope Fingon had had to follow along had been lost. How rude, to get lost in his head and neglect his guest. He perked his ears and tried to fumble for the thread of the topic they were discussing but gave up after a moment.

“I'm sorry?” Fingon was not certain what a _thranduil_ was, not entirely and the meaning eluded him.

When met only by such blank uncomprehending staring, he tried again and wrinkled his forehead in thought, “Ah... _Nín ionneg_?” And this too, was lost on Fingon. Oropher stomped his foot sharply and muttered something that was most likely best to be left untranslated, Fingon understood the meaning well enough. Frustration. A barrier the both of them could not vault entirely.

“None the matter. Fine fine,” Oropher decided finally and waved the topic off.

Offered with such an easy, elegant way to bow out of what could easily fall apart into awkward fumbling, Fingon took the opportunity gratefully.

And then, quite suddenly, he was gone. Not so fast that he could not bid Fingon farewell, of course, that he took his time for. But all of a sudden something overtook Oropher's interest and Fingon, previously the most important thing, it seemed, was passé. 

"_Navaer_," Oropher called, clapped Fingon's arm and stepped between the tents. And then, gone. Like some forest sprite vanishing with half-drunk dreams.

Fingon looked after him for a moment, smelled mulled wine and ash someone had roasted vegetables with, so different from the pools. The thought of going back into the darkness, away to sulk and feel sorry, appalled him. The cold dampness of the grass, the He found that he wished to return to Maedhros, where it was warm.

* * *

“There you are,” Maedhros said when Fingon announced his presence. He was where Fingon had left him, though now he sat alone. A discoloured spot on the table, across from Maedhros, when someone had spilled a bit of wine and Maedhros' own cup were the only indication that someone had sat there to drink not long ago. No sight of Finrod or the elves he had dragged along. The wine in Maedhros' cup had been left untouched, or refilled and then forgotten.

Maedhros reached out to clasp Fingon's hand to squeeze them for a moment. “I was worried I might have chased you off,” he said.

Fingon returned the gesture, squeezed lightly at warm hands that cherished his presence. “No, no of course not. I just needed to stretch my legs a little. I went fishing,” he added slyly and flopped down on the bench next to Maedhros.

“I am glad you're back. They humoured me all evening, Fingon. I was asked to dance far too many times. I had hoped I would not need to fend them off any longer, looking like this, but here we are. And there they are, with their polite, pitying interest, how droll.” For all the posturing he did, he did not sound half as vexed as he might have wished Fingon to believe.

“How glad that I won't ask you,” Fingon said.

“You won't?” Maedhros asked as if to clarify and tilted his head.

“Of course not.” Fingon leaned back, stretched languidly but glanced sideways, “You will though, won't you?”

A hum, “We might be evenly matched now.”

“I will have you know, I am an excellent dancer if someone else leads.”

Maedhros grinned at him sardonically. “If you demand it, who am I to deny you?” He slumped a little, not by much, just enough for Fingon to feel him grow limp. “But not tonight, forgive me, but I am weary.” He shook his head and drew a sharp breath through his teeth, a hand at his temple. “I am sorry.”

“Don't be. Rest as long as you need. There is enough time for it. I am in no hurry.”

Maedhros leaned in, as if the rest against his friend like they had done so often when they had been younger. Casually, without much thought nor hesitation. And without quite noticing when, Fingon had held his breath.

In the distance, cutting into whatever music wished to invite to dancing, horns rang.

The Fëanorians, led by their king, had arrived.

Next to Fingon, Maedhros sighed, quiet enough that only the two of them could hear and drew away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin Phrases shamelessly plucked from [CouncilofElrond](https://www.councilofelrond.com/content/phrases/#sindarin)


	27. It Is Not Arrogant Or Rude

Maglor looked no less uncomfortable with his crown missing, Fingon found when the crowd parted for them. Here, it was once more quite easy to see which were of his kin, for those pulled away to let him pass. The Sindar, never so closely involved with that blasted tale of heroism following Fingon around, needed a moment longer to read the crowd.

A wooden stage had been erected. Light on carving but decorated with long wreaths of flowers twisted along the slender poles drew the eyes to those who stood on it now. Maglor, travel-mussed still, and Fingolfin stood next to one another, with Maglor crowned in gold. Fingolfin had left his own circlet behind, instead he was decorated with a crown of twisted ivy. He had not worn it when they had parted and Fingon wondered a moment longer over it before Maglor spoke. He addressed Fingolfin but turned so all would hear.

Next to him, restlessly fidgeting, Maedhros gave a rusty, dry hum, a sound so close to frenzied panic as Fingon had heard from him in a while, and shook his head as if a wasp had settled in his ear. “Fingon...” he whispered, low enough to make no spectacle of himself.

Whatever it was that Maglor told of restoration and strengthening of bonds and kinship, all that paled against the soft tremble on Maedhros' breath. Fingon turned, ears high and alert. “Yes?” The distress startled him and already the elves around and before them were forgotten in the face of Maedhros' suffering. “Something hurting? Do you need to sit?”

“Yes, I--” Maedhros began and shook his head again. His hands wandered to his temple, his blindfold, trembling for a moment, caught between fumbling and not. “Yes. Fingon, _please_.”

There were not many things that could have taken priority over Maedhros and even less when it came to Maedhros showing such obvious hurt.

The crowd parted before Fingon as if he was a ship before the waves and for this one time he hardly minded the fact. Not if it meant he could give Maedhros the help he needed.

Behind them, Maglor continued his speech, unaware that his brother had left, if he had even known Maedhros had been there in the first place.

* * *

A seat was found and some water besides. Fingon saw to it that Maedhros drank and searched for signs of further distress. There was no trembling, at least not anymore, no gasping for breath, no confusion.

"Will you be alright? I can stay here,” Fingon offered quietly when Maedhros had drained his water and looked no more at ease after he set the cup back down. Perhaps Maedhros had overdone it, the long standing, the excitement, the wine... Fingon should have looked out for him better. Instead of wandering off to bother bathing elves.

Maedhros smiled feebly and cleared his throat, “I'm sorry for making a scene.”

“Don't be,” Fingon said. “There was not much missed, I think. Nothing against your brother and his rousing oratory. And besides, you would have made a true spectacle if you had fainted.”

Maedhros laughed dryly, as if the water had done nothing, “Do I look that bad?”

Fingon flapped his ears twice. “You _are_ a little pale.”

Amused huffing, a cough in the middle, Maedhros grinned at him, “I am _always_ pale and pallid, Fingon. Why do you think the servants say the hallways are haunted? That's just me when I search for late night snacks.”

“More than your usual then,” Fingon relented. “Also, the servants don't say that.”

“Idle daydreaming on my part then.”

“If that brings you joy.”

Maedhros smirked, “Immense joy at that.” But he did not sound particularly joyful or amused and Fingon doubted that it was simply because of Maedhros' dizzy spell.

“Is something else wrong?” Fingon asked and sat down beside Maedhros so they could talk quietly.

A moment of pause, “Safe me trying to faint dramatically?”

“I-- It's... Has it something to do with your brothers?” When Maedhros stiffened slightly, Fingon knew he had struck true. “I don't want to press, not if you are too uncomfortable with it.” Because how could one grow to accept the idea that he had been left behind? “I can only imagine... It must be terrible to--” To be left alone, Fingon wanted to say. But he had no right, for the only sibling that had left him had been ripped from life without much of a choice if he wished to or not. Argon was gone. It caused such hopeless pain still, perhaps forever would. But he had not abandoned them. The blame lay solely with those who had murdered him.

“I'm sorry, I am terrible with words.”

Maedhros' brothers had left him behind in the dead of night and now Fingon could not even properly comfort him as all of this hurt had been dragged back to the surface.

“That's alright. It's fine,” Maedhros said when Fingon had flipped through his collection of comforting phrases and turned up nothing that fit. He nudged Fingon and one of his hands found his back to pat it.

Deflated by his failure, face red with shame, Fingon tried to search for something in Maedhros' rigid ears, signs of agitation, of unease, “How can it just be fine?” He leaned into the touch even as he knew better. It was Maedhros comforting him when it should have been the other way around.

Maedhros shrugged. “What can I do? What good would keeping a grudge do?”

“But...”

“Fingon, enough of this. How is this having fun?”

The rebuttal ached at his heart. “But--”

Maedhros cut him off, “Come now, Fingon,” Maedhros said and forestalled all protest. “There is no point in continuing this. Something else. I do not think I will manage to dance tonight, I'm sorry.”

“That's fine,” Fingon said and did not sound hurt, “There are plenty of nights left over.”

“Sorry,” Maedhros said again.

“Hush, this is getting old.” But even then, something sat ill with Fingon and he knew not precisely what. Many things. But he had few names to attach to them. “Instead, let me get something to eat. Perhaps that might help?”

“It cannot hurt in any case,” Maedhros agreed and leaned back in his chair. He looked peaceful enough, there was no tremble and no desire to fuss with his blindfold.

* * *

“Fingon,” Maglor said in the way of greeting. Behind him stood Caranthir, Where all others had forewent overbearing adornment, silks and gemstones, Maglor had no such quarrels. His fingers had been decorated with rings, gold and precious stones made up his crown and had been worked into his robes. Was that where the demanded finery had ended up in?

Not at all the struggling Sons that held the lands from evil, troubled, resisting with every step no matter the ugly cost. Perhaps they were, who was Fingon to judge? But one had to wonder where all of that spruce fit in with that.

“Can I help his Majesty with anything?” Fingon asked with perhaps unneeded courtliness when Maglor did not appear willing to leave. Caranthir, however, did. He exhaled, huffed like some displeased hound, and marched away. Scared off, unwilling to deal with sass and anger directed at him? Whatever it was, he was not in the mood to lend his brother reinforcement, it seemed.

Maglor flinched back at his brother's retreat, ears pressing against decorated hair for a moment before returning back to something that resembled relaxed idleness, or at least a very bland attempt at it. Fingon nearly believed it if he squinted. “Don't you start as well, I am your cousin first for this night and however long this posturing goes on,” Maglor said when his attention was returned to Fingon.

As far as descriptors went, this sounded unkind and at least a little condescending. “Was it not your idea?” Fingon asked.

Maglor huffed but did not continue. Instead he straightened his circlet and made to turn. “Walk with me?” He asked but did not truly wait for an answer.

Fingon considered the order, for it had not felt like an offer between cousins and only like king to vassal. “Not with Turgon?”

“Your brother has made it abundantly clear that he does not wish to see me.” Indignant, “You might not believe this, Fingon, but I can respect such wishes.”

“And so you used the next best Fingolfinion you could find?” Fingon found himself surprisingly short on temper but could not pinpoint when all of it had flown out the window. When Maglor had strolled up to him as if they had not fled like cowards? Or before even that? Unwilling to indulge Maglor in skirting about whatever it was he had hoped to find in Fingon. Someone to humour him? Perhaps. But Maglor had not bothered with apologising and Fingon had been pulled away from things he had looked forward to.

“If you wish to see it like that,” Maglor shrugged. “So, will you walk with me?”

Fingon followed, walking next to Maglor. There was no point in holding a grudge and if there was no grudge, there was hardly a reason not to indulge his wishes. If Fingon told himself this, for Maedhros' sake, and did so often enough, then perhaps it would come true.

* * *

They passed by groups of elves as they walked among the fires, there in the heart of the celebrations. Maglor, never evading into the shadows, walked unashamed amongst those he had left first on the shore and then at the lake.

Fingon could hear whispers at the edge of his hearing. Had Maglor taken Fingon with him to show that their champion tolerated his presence? Possibly. But to be fair, who else could Maglor turn to anymore? Aredhel had stormed off the moment the horns had sounded, Turgon had chased him off.

The Finarfinwions remained, of course. But they were less inclined to remain above the belt once slighted and Maglor did not appear willing to have his decisions questioned and his fragile ego stomped mercilessly to paste. Such was the price when one trifled with the golden cousins.

Fingon opted for silence. What could one say to that? Because of course it was true. Injured pride, betrayed trust, hurt, though pale and old, still existed. And to say so was redundant and quite obvious, hopefully. What was the use of holding a grudge, indeed. And yet he could not. If not for his own sake, then for Maedhros.

Maglor had prepared a...speech. Not quite. A list of things he wished to talk about incessantly, rather. But what ramble he unloaded on Fingon had very little in the way of sorted, coherent thought. Only words. Words upon words. All for Maglor. Fingon did not get much in the way of conversation and instead had resigned himself to listen.

His cousin spoke of the lands he and his brothers had encountered, how they had tamed them, more or less. Hardships they faced; Orcs and other evils that would spill across the world if no one stopped them.

Only after a little while did Fingon notice that Maglor stared at him. He had not listened very well then. FIngon turned, met Maglor's gaze, the same grey eyes most of his brothers shared, head-on and blinked. "Sorry?"

“I am aware,” Maglor began after an awkward pause, “That we did not part on the best of terms. I shan't blame you for being distracted. I promise I will not keep you for long. ” Maglor cleared his throat. "I simply want you to know that this was a necessary decision we did not make lightly. Indeed, many nights did we, all of us, convene and believe me when I tell you this, Fingon, that we took no pleasure in it."

"Ah." Not much else was said, though Maglor hardly seemed to mind.

“I admit,” Maglor said, “That we did not act as we perhaps should have.” A tiny almost-admission of guilt, the very barest of minimum. Maglor gazed to the side, as if waiting for Fingon to concede him this point.

Fingon, meanwhile, remembered the petitions that had come fluttering in, to have a High King appointed by vote and being ignored, the tax-demands that had followed and the way Maedhros had wasted away for days in his locked room.

“Why did you never tell us what you planned? You tore what we mended and ran away when we needed you most,” Fingon said. The hostility felt strange but not unfamiliar. Something deeply locked inside Fingon had waited an awfully long time to snap at them.

"Would you have let us go?" Maglor asked instead of answering.

* * *

Finrod stared at them, at Maglor, with wide and piercing eyes that stripped all and every defense. Maglor avoided his gaze and veered into another row of tents. Fingon shrugged at Finrod before he vanished along.

"The crown was mine by right," Maglor said after a moment, without prompting. It seemed to be a sore topic for him. He had been contested for it several times, after all.

"Maedhros came back," Fingon replied at once.

"But he never asked for the crown to be returned to him," Maglor snapped and mumbled something sounding vaguely like an apology.

* * *

A green-elf bumped against Maglor, only briefly. Not many had travelled here and certainly none so far had introduced themselves. They had simply shown up, unnanounced but not uninvited, and inserted themselves into the festivities. Skittish they were.

Maglor rumbled something, brushed his robes and looked ruffled when no apology was offered. Instead the stranger elf hurried along to catch up with his group of friends and knew, or cared, not that he had nearly bowled over the High King of the Noldor.

"There are no titles tonight," Maglor said and mockingly repeated Fingolfin's proclamation said in friendship and goodwill.

"Does that bother you? You won't find anyone bowing nor scraping tonight," Fingon admitted.

"It is untrue," Maglor said simply.

* * *

It occurred to Fingon then, when they perused one of the benches, that he was dancing. Not in the way he wished to do with Maedhros, undisturbed and freely. But Maglor, he found, had pulled him along and they were dancing around some topic. Something Maglor touched upon but refused to name.

"Is there something you have to _say,_ Maglor?" Fingon asked softly but did not sigh. Because he had spoken quite a lot but nothing had been _said_.

"Ah, well, of course I am curious to hear about Maedhros," Maglor said after a moment, haltingly. "I did not meet him so far. Perhaps he is off somewhere."

Fingon did not reply to that. Only unkind things lay that way and Fingon held no grudge. Maglor could be forgiven for his thoughtless words.

"Perhaps he is busy, you know how it is with him. Has he settled in well enough?"

_Why don't you ask **him** that?_ Fingon thought grimly. But all the same he remembered Maedhros tight-lipped stiffness, the way all mirth had been smothered. It could have been nausea. It could have been fear as well.

* * *

“I ought to apologise,” Maglor finally decided, out of nowhere, really. Fingon strongly suspected by now that Maglor had had an entirely different conversation with himself all the while he had spoken at Fingon. "Someone has to. Amrod won't, but he can hardly be blamed. He suffers, you know?"

"Hm," Fingon said. A little of the frustration left him. That was a start, was is not? If nothing else, an admission of wrong-doing could go so very far in repairing hurt. And if Maglor wished to start with his brother, still too ashamed to face the rest of his family, was that not at least a _start_?

With Fingon's open approval, Maglor seemed invigorated, reassured in his decision. “Yes. I will go to him and apologise. If not for attacking him, then for not stopping it. Words were said and actions taken which should have been thought over. But that is in the past now, I hope.”

Fingon must have looked quite flabbergasted indeed, for Maglor folded his ears back in sudden concern and leaned forward “...What is it?”

_Attacking him. _“What did you say?”

When had the world become so small? So constricted that he could hardly seem to catch his breath as his lungs pattered against his rips, as if trying to escape. Without warning, anger. It was as if everything had collapsed into itself. Even the firelight had grown dim. Fingon felt his heart wrench in something akin to the horror he had felt when they had retrieved Argon's hröa from the fields.

Maglor, ears high in dull alarm, grunted and shook his head. “Ah... He did not tell you... I was wondering why you were so amicable...” Maglor said and muttered some half-curse under his breath. “I can explain if you want, granted that you do not murder me, Fingon.”

There was not even a hint of Maglor's biting wit. Only resignation born from overbearing, ceaseless worry. When had the sons of Fëanor ever been so hopeless and dim in all their words and every moment? Lukewarm and detached, none of the confident and brash cousins he had once known remained.

“Tell me,” Fingon said.

Maglor did, too afraid, hopefully, to resist.

It would take some time until Fingon trusted himself to move again, until the demanding desire to strangle Maglor and then move down the line of brothers was mostly gone. It was likely futile to hope it would ever leave entirely.

* * *

“You are such _cowards_,” Fingon finally said, drained and unhappy, when the entire awful story had been told. He felt many things, not all could be named and many more he did not wish to touch upon for their darkness resonating within him scared him. Mostly, he felt endlessly sick. “The whole lot of you. A blind elf who trusted you. Family. And you told him these horrid things.”

Maglor had tried to spare him on details, be this measure born from some sense of shame or the desire to keep Fingon from clobbering him to death if he painted too vivid a picture.

Not that Fingon felt he would have been all that wrong in this assessment. Many things needed conscious holding back. Words most unkind but not untrue. Fists that wished to bend the mocking, golden crown on Maglor's head back into his skull. Wild and endless sobbing.

His hands clenched, along with his jaw.

“Please stop grinding your teeth like that, it sounds horrid,” Maglor said finally and sounded as if he had not just confessed to such hideous cruelty. Much like he had done when they had been small and Maglor had been a flighty singer and not this horrid distortion of a cousin perhaps long lost. Much had changed of course. They were not children anymore and Maglor had never been cruel. Thoughtless perhaps. But so dismissive?

Fingon grunted, raked trembling fingers through his braided hair. “Can't you just be quiet for a moment, Maglor? At least for as long as you don't have anything important to say?”

Maglor's ears flicked, flopped, fell briefly but returned upright defiantly after a moment. But he kept quiet while Fingon roiled in his own heartbroken confusion.

“Just... _Why_?”

“The Oath forced us,” Maglor said and there was not the tiniest bit of doubt anywhere. All of it could be blamed on the Oath. The Oath did it. We are innocent, it was the Oath.

“The Oath told you to lure your brother into safety and then beat him senseless,” Fingon said. It was not a question.

Maglor did not hum, his ears did not move. But he blinked and his lips parted, closed and finally he averted his gaze. There was a wide space around them and none of it had been because of any guards. If nothing else, Maglor had not insisted on being closely shadowed. Perhaps even Maglor did not wish to antagonise the Gathered by implying he feared for his life among them.

“We had to leave.”

“Where does the brother-beating factor into this?”

“Fingon...”

“Don't you dare 'Fingon' me, Maglor.” Much poison lay behind the words, a sharp hiss.

Maglor pulled back and looked upon his cousin like a fox might the hound.

“Answer me.”

“I--” Maglor began, stuttered briefly. For a moment, there was doubt. And then it was gone, walled away behind a hard frown. “You would not understand.”

“Look where we are, you idiot!” Fingon called and thrust his arm around to encompass all of the land. “Look where we are, does this look like Aman to you?! We followed and we _suffered_ for it.” A hissing snarl, nearly feral.

Maglor pulled away. “You are upset, Fingon. I understand that,” he shook his head until the neatly kept strands of his raven hair spilled apart. He did not look quite so put together as he had before. More like a child with a crown that was not meant for him. “That is no reason to speak to me like this. I will forgive it, mind yourself for the future.” He nodded at Fingon and made to depart indignantly.

Fingon was in front of him not two steps later and there were no guards to pull them apart.

“Answer me, Maglor. What are you so afraid of? Not even you are so foolish as to not know. Tell me.”

Maglor turned, tried to. There was not much kingly regality left. “I can't. Do not presume to command your king.” It sounded weak.

Fingon kept him there, like a dog herding a sheep. “Don't you dare evade again. I will follow you around and make a scene until you answer me. I am tired of this.”

"It is unfair that you place this all on me, Fingon."

"You are High King, are you not? Who speaks for the Noldor if not you?"

"You are cruel," Maglor accused, sounding miserable.

_And what are you?_ Fingon thought. The disgust at his cousin's writhing, the pitiful attempt to evade, lay thick on his tongue and silenced him when all he wished was to keep spitting poison.

Maglor looked at Fingon and all life had vanished from his gaze. Only dull grey stared back at him and Fingon knew that whatever of Macalaurë Maglor had once carried within himself had died long ago.

“Because if this were true, and the Oath did not make us do as we did with him...” Maglor turned his head to the side, “Then what else was our own doing? What else would be our own sin?”

Fingon grunted and felt his teeth grind together in unrestrained fury. Then, he stormed away. The talk, all of this pointless drivel, ended on his terms. This, one tiny shred of pride, he allowed himself when all else felt as if it had been ripped out of his fingers and beyond his reach.


	28. A Time To Mourn, And A Time To Dance

He had gone to sleep, ready to boil over in his anger. Maedhros had send someone to notify Fingon that he had retired for the night. Fingon himself had not found it within himself to mingle, too angry, too torn up, too guilty to enjoy company.

So he had searched for his tent and tried to sleep and awoke not much better the next morning amidst twisted sheets and rumbled clothes. His dreams had been broiling fury and the salty crust on his face had left him feeling dried out and sore around the eyes.

What to do now? Confront Maedhros with the horror learnt and demand to know why, _why,_ in Eru's name, he had not told them that he had suffered at the hands of family? Was Fingon so untrustworthy? His comfort so meaningless?

The thought of that, when Maedhros' horror-stricken face and his shaking fingers now fell into place and made such horrible sense... Fingon felt nauseous. The anger was nearly gone, with nothing to sustain it. But not extinguished entirely.

How it could exists next to the cold dread and sobered shame he now felt, that was a mystery all in itself.

He wanted, _yearned,_ to talk to Maedhros. Maedhros, who knew how to make sense of everything, who could calm that endless tempest that plagued Fingon. But he could hardly go and complain to Maedhros about his own feelings regarding the matter. How selfish of him to worry about himself when it was Maedhros who had suffered. Suffered for years.

And Fingon had done nothing. Nothing at all to help him.

* * *

He did not call for anyone and instead fixed his hair himself. He was no stranger to such work and indeed, he managed to dress himself just fine, as he had done for years before. True, an attendant would have done finer work. But Fingon wished to hide the remains of his rattled temper.

A washing bowl and cold water removed the warm soreness around his eyes and the streaks that had dried there.

When he stepped outside into the dewy grass and under dawn streaked sky, one would have barely been able to tell something had been wrong at all.

And so assured, as well as he could be, he went to search for distraction until he could believe himself as well. It would not do to have Maedhros worried over Fingon's plight as well. Breakfast came to mind. But Fingon did not feel in the mood to eat alone and even less to make idle conversation with elves who truly wished to speak to Fingon the Valiant.

Was that one of the reasons why he wandered into his cousins corner of the camp? Not the Fëanorians. He was quite put out by the thought of seeing one of them.

No. It was Finrod's tent, the garland someone had used to decorate it gave it away, that Fingon found himself in front of.

And be it fate, sharp ears or coincidence, Finrod pushed the tent's flap back and made to greet the day. Like a flower at the first promise of sun, Finrod came sauntering out of his tent, face turned towards the sky, golden hair in unbound cascades tumbling over his back. “Fingon!” Finrod called and sounded just as carefree then as he always did when good things could be freely indulged in. No sign of   
  
“You had fun, I take it?” Fingon asked him when Finrod began to stretch himself, much to the delight of a gaggle of maidens who loitered inconspicuously close to Finrod's tent. Finrod's laugh, his easy joyfulness, Fingon found his own mood lifted in turn.

“And what fun indeed. Had you yet the pleasure of translating poetry back and forth?"

"Who, me?" Fingon asked and scoffed playfully, "I can't even speak Sindarin and you want me to sound eloquent with it?"

"How better to learn it than juggling wildly until something sounds good?"

Finrod would have been the first to jump for such chaotic ways of learning, though "How indeed."

And then, just like that, Finrod's face turned serious. “Maglor talked with you. I saw you.”

“I—Yes.”

“What did he say? He did not offend you, did he? If he antagonised you--"

Before promises of retribution could be made, and Fingon had no doubt that they would be promises instead of threats, Fingon placated his cousin. "No more than usual, you know how it is. How he is..."

"Ai..." Finrod sighed, shrugged. "Nothing for it. What can one do? You did well in any case. I would not have been so courteous, to be perfectly honest with you."

"How do you know I was?"

"Did you lay him flat?"

Fingon shuffled a half-step to the side, hands folded behind his back before he brought them back. His ears folded but not by much. He was not all that ashamed for the thought. After everything, was he not entitled to a little pettiness? "Well, I mean I _thought_ about it...Briefly."

Finrod laughed. "He has that effect, he really has. Never understood how Turgon could stand it."

"How indeed?" Fingon said but of course he knew. Turgon had been a patient sort, a patience born from having Aredhel as a sister and the slew of cousins he had found himself with had also given little in the way of dealing with. Insanity or acceptance and very little in between.

"Speaking of which, would you mind terribly if we continued this over breakfast? I promised Turgon we would meet."

"Now that you mention it," Fingon said and followed his cousin in search of breakfast.

* * *

They heard their aunt's griping from an entire row of tables away.

“Why is your father wearing ivy? Where did he get that one from? That was not cleared with the wardrobe,” Lalwen asked no one in particular. “Who gave him this travesty,” she said. Not asked. Simply lamented.

“It suits him,” Orodreth, well-meaning and truthfully said. “I like it.” Where exactly he had managed to get salted fish and wheat porridge, something they had not eaten since the first true harvest had come in and they had bidden that particular dish a very earnest good riddance, no one knew. But if anything, it proved that Orodreth's taste needed to be carefully considered.

“A gift from one of the Sindar. Very popular there, I am told,” Turgon said, hands around a cup of tea. The kettle had been left as well.

Lalwen leaned back, “Ai, _wonderful_. Then I cannot throw it away, seems ungrateful,” Lalwen said disdainfully.

“It's pretty though,” Orodreth cut in again, this was the hill he had chosen to die on for reasons no one could discern. “Why would you throw it out?”

“Because it looks like he is wearing the salad course, that's why.”

“Who eats ivy for salad, aunt Lalwen?” Idril asked from her spot at the table, a book half forgotten and safely away from any wayward crumbs flying.

“Don't you be smart with me, Idril, I am not in the mood. Rather someone help me devise a plan how to rid Fingolfin of this-- There you are!”

All assembled turned towards Fingon and Finrod.

“And where exactly where you, Fingon? And you, Finrod? Just because Fingolfin tells you you can leave does not mean you get to vanish.”

“Around,” both cousins said as one.

Lalwen rolled her eyes and turned back to her breakfast. "Prats, all of you." But there was no fire behind her words.

And the knot in Fingon's chest felt not quite so tight as it had been when he had woken up.

* * *

Maedhros sat outside his tent, on a chair someone had brought him. The temperatures had dropped as the evening had progressed and he had pulled his cloak tighter around himself. High-backed, perhaps the bench had proven too unwieldy, too exhausting. This one had armrests at least. He turned when Fingon called out to him and smiled briefly in his direction. "How was your day, Fingon?" Maedhros asked. He looked nearly at peace. Or exhausted. Hard to say.

"I'm sorry, I should have sought you out sooner," Fingon apologised meekly. The blustered confidence he had recovered in a hurry felt quite shaky all of a sudden. A day had not been enough to overcome what had undone him so.

Maedhros waved him off with one hand, "Don't be. I would not have been fun today. Exhausted, you understand."

"Do you feel better?"

"Splendid."

“Then... I was promised a dance,” Fingon said and barely managed to think over his thundering heart. But this was not about himself. Not entirely. But it would have been a brazen lie to deny that Fingon did not cling to the promise given to seek out comfort.

He had entertained the notion, a daydream really, how he would come to sweep Maedhros away from the dull misery that surrounded him. Strolling up to him, self-assured and casual. Instead Fingon's voice climbed at the very last moment, like it had when he had been younger and his mouth felt dry.

Maedhros lifted his head and turned to regard him, or to give at least the polite appearance that he did. He had never bothered with it before, always secure in the knowledge that Fingon knew he had his full attention. “So you were.”

He could hardly force Maedhros, drag him into the fray if something bothered him, “If you do not feel up for it...”

Brusquely, uncharacteristically so, “I promised, did I not?” Maedhros pivoted his shredded ears, brought them to lay flat against his head, as flat as they would go “I... Sorry, that was--” With no chance to make his outburst not happen, un-happen, to take it back before the thoughts for it even formed. He cleared his throat and rose clumsily. “Shall we? I have been looking forward to it.”

Fingon hummed, for his words did not feel enough. Flustered still, out of sorts and now frazzled, whatever smart thing to say there might have been was hopelessly buried underneath nervous energy.

Maedhros clutched Fingon's fingers, “Lead on then.”

This, at least, Fingon could do and the faint promise of dancing and fun and dearly needed distraction was nearly enough to centre him. He grasped Maedhros in return and together they wandered towards the dancing grounds.

* * *

This felt a little different, Fingon noted to himself, though not in as many words, when they made their way through tents and elves and all the chatter that accompanied them.

It smelled of woodsmoke and herbs here, mulled honey wine and roasted peppers. Somewhere someone had or was still burning beeswax. Maedhros sniffed idly at the air but did not stop in his tracks. Neither did he speak. His arm tightened against Fingon's but even then he remained relaxed and curious. Fingon could not remember when last he had experienced Maedhros like this. But underneath all of it, a little guarded, uneasy still.

Someone began to sing a lilting melody, something that reminded of home. Others joined in and for a moment the world was not a cold, dark place.

“I'm sorry,” Maedhros said, very close to Fingon's ear, low enough for his voice to hum with every word. Fingon's ears strained for the noise, to commit every word to heart.

“I am blind, in many senses I suppose.” Maedhros smiled ruefully and looked miserable, so close to Fingon it was easy to catch the way his lips trembled in their carefully pleasant mien. “Yet I am not blind to the fact that I was short with you and often am.” He breathed softly, “You deserve better than having to lug me around all the time. To worry for me and my foolishness.”

Fingon fumbled for words, none feeling true. “That's alright,” he finally said and it was mostly the truth and yet sounded horrible. “I never minded it any. You know you can tell me what bothers you. Always. I am here.”

“I know,” Maedhros said. But he hardly sounded as if he did. Instead, he pulled Fingon onto the packed earth and the grass clipped short enough to not trip over.

He did not walk as tall, stood as proud as he once had. But he was still taller than Fingon who found himself grasping for Maedhros' shoulder without hesitation. And this too was much like the playfulness of their youth. Maedhros had never been shy about dragging his cousins, any cousin but Fingon most of all, into ballrooms.

“It has been a while since I moved with any more grace than stumbling my way up the stairs, I should tell you.”

“Evenly matched, remember?” Fingon asked and chuckled Maedhros did too. Fingon's heart fluttered at the soft sound. “And I _hardly_ had the time to brush up on my steps,” Fingon continued, “I was rather busy learning not to get bashed over the head.”

Maedhros grinned, wide enough to have his blindfold shift a tiny bit as his face moved, “As long as you do not flip me over your shoulder in some sudden bout of zealous reflex, I shan't complain.”

Fingon laughed and pouted playfully, “A true pity that; It would make for such a spectacle, you have to admit.”

Maedhros chuckled but said nothing. Instead, his ears pricked when Fingon pulled him along and they joined those already gracefully moving, gliding over the earth. They would likely stand out among them, but that was alright. Quite alright, in fact.

Fingon, after all, did not much care about them. Only Maedhros mattered.

* * *

A hand on Maedhros' shoulder, the other twined with one of his. In turn, Maedhros brought his own hand, his left, to rest on Fingon's waist.

Fingon, if anything, found the pose familiar enough to feel comfortable, even if the memories lay decades behind them. Mostly. His heart was not certain it wanted to slow, it felt like. Was it the touch of Maedhros' hands, resting lightly on him?

“Well?” Maedhros asked and sounded slightly amused.

“Whenever you are ready,” Fingon answered and followed along when Maedhros began to lead.

The steps came slow, the music permitted it, and Fingon could not have recalled the entire routine if his life had depended on it. That was alright, Maedhros had him. What a relief that was.

“Shall we see if I manage a sudden spin without passing out?”

“How adventurous!” Fingon called low and laughed. “Are you sure? Try to faint to your left, it will look as if I dipped you.”

Maedhros nudged him and it was impossible to see from the outside, close as they stood. A gesture only for Fingon and Maedhros. “And what will you do after that, I wonder? When I don't get back up? Just leave me there?”

The thought of Maedhros, unconscious, limp, helpless, rose unbidden to his mind. “Never!” It sounded a little more indignant than he had meant it to sound. It was the truth still.

They twirled, slowly. Neither wished to back away from the challenge. Maedhros did not faint. Both laughed, however.

"That went far better than you thought it would," Fingon noted. "Admit it."

Maedhros laughed. "Didn't it? Deceptively so, that can't be right." He snorted, "Watch me pass out after the fact."

"Are you?" Fingon asked and braced himself to catch him if necessary. Maedhros was not as mighty as he once had been. And Fingon was far stronger than he had been in his gentle, uncomplicated youth.

"No, I jest. I promise," Maedhros said gently and leaned closer. He was warm, Fingon found. So warm.

Fingon nodded. "Tell me if it stops being...that."

"Always," Maedhros assured and appeared fully content in dropping the matter and continue with their dance.

"I mean it," Fingon said urgently because he certainly was not. "I know I can not always offer the best of advice."

"Fingon, that's not--"

"You needn't try to make me feel better. I just... Maedhros, had I only known what your brothers did--"

There was no answer for a moment. Nothing at all, safe the music and the singing that paled in the little spot the two elves occupied.

"What..." Maedhros murmured as if coming out of a dream, "I never told you that."

And Fingon knew he had lost, even in the face of admittance from him, when he heard Maedhros' tone. The way Maedhros pulled back from him a little. What exactly he had lost? He knew it not. But it felt terribly, all of it. Every single piece of everything that now happened.

“No,” Maedhros said when he realised what Fingon meant. “How? Who told you?” And the hopeless tone, the betrayal in his voice, wrenched at Fingon's heart. "Which one?" Maedhros stiffened, straightened. And suddenly he was not at all weak, not at all unsteady. Even if it took effort.

Fingon found himself towered, truly _towered_ by him. In Aman, when their different heights had been at their greatest, never had Findekáno felt so small in Maitimo's presence. But Fingon did. “Maglor told me,” he confessed and his heart ached for far too many reasons. “He said--”

Maedhros made a sound between an annoyed _tsk_ and something that send chills down Fingon's back. No warmth, no weary mirth at all behind the growl that silenced him and all his thoughts. Had Maedhros always possessed such dreadfully sharp teeth? Like fangs as he barred them for a moment. “He says quite a lot, that brother of mine.”

“You did not deserve to be treated like that,” Fingon said, instead of quailing away from the fanged form looming over him. Someone ought to remain and speak the truth Maedhros cared not to listen to. And yet no one else did.

Maedhros settled once more, the teeth vanished behind frowning lips, the grimace was tucked away and he tilted his head forward to face Fingon. “No one who followed deserved anything that has happened,” Maedhros replied, with a darkness that was nothing like Nelyo or Maitimo. This was only Maedhros. “Or did you forget your journey across the Ice?”

_I was not left blind and beaten, _Fingon wished to say but did not. “You are still suffering the consequences.”

And Maedhros turned his head. Turned until he would have stared right at Fingon if he still could have. The baleful indignity Fingon felt had not been diminished in the slightest. “Do not elevate me and my suffering because you _care_ for me, Fingon. I need no one's pity, I want none of it. Least of all _yours_.”

To have his intentions so twisted and thrown back in his face hurt. But Fingon did not give up in the face of Maedhros' anger. He deserved better.

When he made to tell Maedhros so, he was cut off again. The dismissiveness, so unlike anything Maedhros had ever shown him, bristled at Fingon's raising hackles.

It was like trying to climb oiled marble with the very best of intentions. Fruitless, forever slipping, not a single foothold. Fingon's righteous anger blundered off uselessly. His ears, along with his hope, fell.

Softer now, to appeal to Maedhros' dwindling reason, “I just wish--” What exactly Fingon wished, not even he was certain. The words had tumbled out but no one wanted to hear them. No one who mattered, in any case.

Maedhros pulled away, out of Fingon's grasp, out of his reach. The music ceased only moments later, so no one but Fingon knew that something had just gone horribly wrong. What exactly, not even Fingon knew. “I'm so--”

And then Maedhros whirled with a conviction Fingon had not seen him use since the Ice and the Oath had torn them apart and stormed off to vanish into the crowd. No hesitation and no restraint, only action. And Fingon, empty fingers and the spot on his waist still remembering Maedhros' touch, stood alone amongst the celebrating crowd.

The fires and the presence of so many bodies did nothing to ward of the chill or the sudden darkness that encroached like invaders upon his heart.


	29. Maedhros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Mentions of traumatic injury and thoughts of suicide. Please read at your own discretion.

Reason had ceased and only animal panic had overtaken him. It had ambushed him, this sudden need to flee. Had risen to the surface with every beat of his frantic, hurting heart. Everything had come down around him and that had been left was to run. To run and run and never stop again. Until the world ended.

How far would he need to run? How long could he? Maedhros knew it not and continued still, uncaring as to where he would stumble towards. Away from the crowds, from the voices of joyful celebration, happiness and music and which tore at him. He could not bear it. Could not bear it.

Sorrow unending, grief unfathomable, drove him onward even as it bound him helpless to the earth like leaden weights. I the wish, the desperate need, had been all he needed to continue, then he would have perhaps never again stopped. But it was not. His body was weak and broken, his sight forever gone. It could not last.

_All is darkness and there are no stars to guide._

He had loved the stars once. He could not even recall how they looked.

The only thing he ever saw before him, that which had burned away all else, all that had once been beauty.

**I have come to teach you anguish, elf.**

Mute and endless horror gripped at him. Something caught his ankle, did not twist it to injury, but the fight was taken out of him as he stumbled, crashed into a heap and lay still. Stunned to silence, breathless, thoughtless. It could not last. The thoughts always returned.

For a moment he had known it to be the Enemy, come to drag him back and he screamed when his lungs were full again. Then he could no longer and instead gasped noiselessly. He brought his hands up close, nearly expected to have wept. Not from pain, for it was always present.

**They always think I go for the tongue first, did you know?**

But tears had not come for years nor would they not. Just another flaw impressed on him. His blindfold had slipped, hands once shattered found the edges of his... The edges... Oh, how they _hurt_. It hurt, it hurt, it burned. As if the iron had been pressed inside but moments ago. Forever forever forever burning.

**Let me show you.**

Just another mark that never left. Ruined. Tainted.

He needed not his eyes, needed no sight to know that he was corrupted, spreading disease and misery with every breath he took.

So why did Fingon still insist--? He had seen how piteous, how weak he was. Mewling, _pathetic_. His own brothers--! They had been right to leave him behind.

If Fingon kept digging... If he kept _caring_ for the wasted ruin that had perhaps once been an elf worthy of one such as Fingon... Had he ever been?

_You will find nothing but ugliness, Fingon. You have suffered enough for my mistakes, for my name, for my sake._

And yet no matter the walls he raised and the defenses he put up... Fingon would not stop. Had always come to pull Maedhros back into light he had not business dwelling in. He had lost all claim to it. Even now, the dance--!

And Maedhros had let him. If only to pretend the world was good and he was good and deserving of Fingon for one more dark day. For one more endless night.

He had not seen the stars in decades.

_Oh_, _Fingon_.

Fingon deserved better. And yet he knew not how to make him see that he wasted himself on Maedhros. Maedhros who pretended to be the elf he had been before he had betrayed him. And Maedhros, too selfish to truly scare him away, leeched from Fingon's warmth, his love in selfish need.

What would he need to do to make Fingon see? What cruelty needed to be committed when the Enemy's dreadful fortress and all horrors within had not turned him away?

Ah, but Maedhros could not bear the thought of it. Of loosing Fingon. Not only greedy. Not just selfish. A coward as well. A broken, miserable coward.

He fought himself to his feet again and his every move send him into horrid. In the distance, the sound of water.

A part of him wished to fling himself into the pools, the lake, whatever it was that sang so to him. A part of him wished to curl against the tree he had stumbled and sleep forever.

He wanted. He _wanted_...

But he would not. Even as he feet felt the soft spring of moist earth and damp grass under every step. He would not. _Oh but if only... _His life was not his to forfeit, for it belonged to Fingon irrevocably. The only thing Maedhros had to give, though he questioned its worth. 

What evil committed in his name. Such heinous crimes by his own hands. Maedhros deserved everything. Every ounce of pain the world had to offer. He deserved to die a thousand thousand painful deaths.

_Fingon, please..._

Why would it not end? Would he ever pass through this night? Endless darkness, hopeless despair.

Selfish. He wished to covert Fingon still. Fingon, who deserved better. Who deserved the world and had only gotten Maedhros for his troubles.

Would it ever end?

He was so tired of the darkness.

So tired of it all.

* * *

How long did he wait for nothing at the pools Eithel Ivrin, with waters he could not see and would not drown in? Maedhros knew it not and cared even less to find out. The sudden despair that had driven him away had faltered, gone for the moment as it always did. Sharp and pressing need, urgent but brief. However dreadful it ad been in the moment, it had not been the first time and certainly would not be the last.

Stupid, Maedhros berated himself as he pondered over lands he had no claim over. Foolish. A floundering tantrum and nothing more. He had made an unnecessary spectacle of himself. How shameful.

Maedhros sighed, made to pull at the blindfold that was surely no longer in any kind of neatness. He would need to find his way back while remaining inconspicuous. And, most importantly, he would need to find some way to make it up to Fingon. He had nothing left to give him. Nothing of meaning. Nothing of value.

Someone crashed through the bushes with no regard for anything, not manners not clothes and certainly not of decorum. “_Maedhros_!”

And yet despite everything, despite Maedhros' ridiculous hysterics, Fingon had come back. Had returned to Maedhros, because Fingon was good and perfect and kind beyond any measure.

And Maedhros...

Well, Maedhros was not. Maedhros was simply lost and scared and deathly tired.

Tired of everything.

But that was not something to burden others with. It was, after all, fully deserved.


End file.
